American Trails #6 International edition

South of the border PALM SPRINGS • MEXICO CITY • TEXAS LAS VEGAS, NEVADA • TORREY, UTAH NEW MEXICO • PENNSYLVANIA UK £12. #2 | SUMMER 2019

ARIZONA • CATSKILLS, NEW YORK CITY GUIDE – WASHINGTON D.C. NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE • BOISE, IDAHO

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AMERICAN TRAILS SUMMER | 2019

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We cross boundaries

W

e travel in order to test boundaries. It could be our own boundaries, our own limitations, or just imaginary dividing lines. Other people’s boundaries, physical boundaries. And, as human beings, we grow by testing boundaries. Educating ourselves, gaining experience, never settling for what we know. Curiosity is the mortal foe of all boundaries. What exists beyond that truth? And what lies beyond that hilltop? And what is that fascinating person thinking about? I want to know more!

Boundaries are there to be erased. It’s quite obvious really, and not something we thought we’d still need to be pointing out in 2019, but of course, bridges are preferable to walls. After all, they take us to new places, across boundaries. Exciting!

At American Trails, we’ve never believed in boundaries as limits or constraints. And on top of that, we’re pathologically curious. We want to know what is around the corner, at the end of the road, across that hill, or in that wonderful person’s mental space. That’s why we’ve decided to incorporate more of America in our universe. In this issue, we tell you why we’re absolutely enamored with and seduced by Mexico City (p. 68), and in future issues, we’ll be exploring Canada and venturing further into America. In the US, as usual, we’ve headed off the beaten track. We’ll be telling you about the Borscht Belt in the Catskill Mountains, the avantgarde artist Kim Gordon (who has never allowed boundaries to limit her creative work), and the legendary blind jazz musician Valerie Capers, who knows more about being a pioneering, female boundary-crosser than anybody. We cross and test boundaries, basically.

We don’t really know our own boundary for the kinds of stories we’ll tell. All we know is that a world where we could all cross boundaries would be a much more beautiful one.

Welcome!

Jonas Henningsson and Jonas Larsson

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Nevada

WE TAKE A BREATHER AND CHECK OUT SOME ART IN LAS VEGAS. PAGE 36.

California

PALM TREES, AND EVERY ROAD LEADS TO PALM SPRINGS. OUR REPORTERS ARE UNBOUNDED. PAGE 18.

Arizona

LARSSON GOES TO CHURCH AND GETS SPELLBOUND. PAGE 128.

Mexico

SOUTH OF THE BORDER. HENNINGSSON EATS AND DRINKS HIS WAY THROUGH ONE OF THE BIGGEST CITIES ON THE PLANET. PAGE 68.

Idaho

HENNINGSSON HANGS OUT WITH ROBERT MAUGHAN AT CACTUS BAR IN BOISE, IDAHO. PAGE 50.

Utah

WE SHOP FOR VEGETABLES IN TORREY. PAGE 126.

Washington, D.C.

THE MOTHER OF ALL CITY GUIDES. COME WITH US TO THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA. PAGE 100.

New York

DECAY IN THE BORSCHT BELT. WE CHECK OUT THE REMNANTS OF A GLORIOUS PAST IN THE CATSKILLS. PAGE 68.

Pennsylvania THE QUEEN OF LO-FI RETURNS. PAGE 16.

Kentucky, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee JOHN AND JOLICA LET CHANCE DECIDE WHERE TO GO NEXT. PAGE 116.

New Mexico

MIRIAM AND MIRA DRIVE ON. TAKE A ROAD TRIP THROUGH A LAND OF DREAMS. PAGE 18.

Texas

GHOST TOWNS, HONKY-TONKS, AND MILES AND MILES OF ROAD WITH MIRIAM AND MIRA. PAGE 18.

Contents

5. BOUNDARIES EXIST TO BE ERASED

52. THE BORSCHT BELT

6. MAP

66. TO DIVE FOR

We cross boundaries–both metaphorically and literally.

Trails continues its journey. We’ve visited a bunch of new states, and we’ve also headed south to Mexico City, to eat and drink our way through the city.

11. A TRIBE CALLED CONTRIBUTORS

We’re so happy to have our curious and wonderful group of collaborators.

18. ROAD TRIP IN THE SOUTH

Our trail finders Miriam and Mira sat down behind the wheel and visited a bunch of states over a hectic couple of weeks. Tag along!

Esther Bak tells the story of the rise and fall of the Borscht Belt.

Frolic Room, a legendary watering hole in LA. It’s the kind of place the likes of us just can’t resist hanging out in.

86. PORTFOLIO

Norwegian photographer Annar Bjørgli tells us about a journey in the Pacific North West.

100. CITY GUIDE: WASHINGTON, D.C.

The US capital, as experienced through the eyes and palates of American Trails’s own Jonas Larsson and Anders Bergersen.

We promise: this is how this city is meant to be experienced.

38. LAS VEGAS ARTS DISTRICT

112. FORGOTTEN AMERICAN CLASSICS: VALERIE CAPERS

50. THE AMERICAN

116. SHAKE, SHUFFLE AND ROLL

Las Vegas has more to offer than gambling.

In this issue, we check out the city’s art scene.

In Boise, Idaho, we had a chat with Robert Maughan at the gorgeous Cactus Bar. It ended up being a long session, because Robert never ran out of stories about his life.

As usual, Donivan Berube informs us about classic, forgotten American albums we didn’t know we loved.

What happens if you let chance determine the route of your road trip? John and Jolica gave it a try.

PHOTO: ANDERS BERGERSEN

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PHOTO: MIRA SVANERED

a tribe called

Contributers

Say hi to Mira, Esther, John, and Jolica, four of our favorite friends who were kind enough to help us with this issue of American Trails magazine.

MIRA SVANERED, FORSA, SWEDEN

Between photography projects, Mira Svanered works as a costume designer for film, or works on her farmhouse in Hälsingland. She’s passionate about analogue photography and vintage aesthetics. Dancing to American Country & Western music, ideally at a honky-tonk in Texas, makes her as happy as can be.

American Trails EXPLORE WITH US

JONAS HENNINGSSON EDITOR IN CHIEF AND PUBLISHER HENNINGSSON@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

JONAS LARSSON CREATIVE DIRECTOR LARSSON@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

LINDA GREN PHOTO EDITOR GREN@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

ESTHER BAK, BROOKLYN, USA

Esther is a journalist and translator based in Brooklyn, NY. She’s inspired by the stories that reside within every person she meets. She often misses Sweden, but she loves her life in NY, where she lives on the top floor of a Brooklyn brownstone with her husband and three children.

ANDERS BERGERSEN STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER BERGERSEN@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

JOHAN LETH PROJECT MANAGER/EDITOR LETH@AMTRAILSMAG.COM

JAN SALOMONSSON TRANSLATOR JAN.SALOMONSSON@EXPRESSIVA.SE

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John DeLeva: John won a college bet in 1995 and became the youngest person to visit every county, borough and parish in America - all 3,086. He hates to see a train leave the station or a plane leave the gate when he’s not on it! Read about what happened John when he let fate decide his road trip. Page 116.

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ANNAR BJØRGLI, OSLO, NORWAY

Annar Bjørgli is a photographer and visual artist who lives in Oslo. He works as a photographer at the Nasjonalmuseet Museum in Norway. He has had several exhibitions and done a number of commissioned decoration projects. At the moment, he is working on a large decoration for a new care home in Oslo. Annar supports the idea of a four-day work week, and thinks that Francis Bacon is a greater artist than Picasso. See Annar’s pictures on page 86.

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Full Circle MARATHON MOTOR WORKS, NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE WORDS AND PHOTO: JONAS HENNINGSSON

I wander around in this old brick building, which is now home to distilleries, craft beer tap rooms, and small-scale chocolateries, all of which make everything on site.

I think to myself how different this place must have been a little over a century ago. However, the car industry was much the same back then. Car companies built their cars from parts they purchased from various manufacturers. In Nashville, they wanted to do it all themselves, and the Southern Engine company managed to make every single part for their cars thanks to the diverse talents of engineer William Henry Collier. In 1909, they launched two models: a roadster and a touring car. They gave them 4-cylinder engines with an output of 35 horsepower.

Major investments were made in 1910, when the Marathon Motor Works was founded and given brand-new, state-of-the-art premises. The name was inspired by the interest in all things Greek that had swept across the world after the success of the 1904 Olympic games. The whole place seems remarkably contemporary today, and the idea of making everything yourself from scratch has also returned to close the circle, a bit like an Olympic ring.

1200–1310 OCH 1305 CLINTON STREET, NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE

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TheLo-Fi Queen 16

AMERICAN AMERICAN TRAILS TRAILS VINTER SUMMER | 2018/2019 | 2019

PHOTO: DAVID BLACK

KIM GORDON – LO-FI GLAMOUR

THE ANDY WARHOL MUSEUM, PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA WORDS: JONAS HENNINGSSON:

Kim Gordon, one of my biggest inspirations in music and arts since her years in New York-band Sonic Youth, has just opened her first North American museum solo-exhibition, featuring paintings, drawings, sculpture, and a commissioned score for Andy Warhol’s 1963–64 silent film Kiss.

Kim Gordon has worked in fashion, publishing, film and music. In the 1980s, it was through art that she found music, coming to Sonic Youth sideways from an early interest in art, aesthetics and performance. Kim Gordon never trained as a musician. Instead, she went to art school at the Otis College of Art and Design. Kim Gordon cites Warhol as one of her artistic influences, particularly the lo-fi aesthetic of Warhol’s studio, as well as his involvement with the Velvet Underground, and his multi-disciplinary practice in fashion, painting, music, publishing, and performance.

Kim Gordon: Lo-Fi Glamour runs until September 1. A limited-edition vinyl record of Gordon’s commissioned score, performed with fellow musicians Bill Nace, Steve Gunn, and John Truscinski, and a booklet of essays that contextualize her artistic practice accompany the exhibition.

KIM GORDON – LO-FI GLAMOUR THE ANDY WARHOL MUSEUM, PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA MAY 17-SEPTEMBER 1 • WARHOL.ORG

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Y’ALL SISTERS? One car, two eager road trippers, four states, sixteen days, and a thousand memories. Read about the two weeks our trail finders Miriam Parkman and Mira Svanered spent behind the wheel.

WORDS: MIRIAM PARKMAN • PHOTO: MIRA SVANERED

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T

he door swings open, and in an instant, a chilly gust of air conditioning replaces the warm, morning air.

Around veneer tables from the 70s, and at a long bar, groups of people sit between pale yellow walls and booths with nougat-colored galloon upholstery, gathered around plates, cups, foggy glasses, and little jugs of maple syrup. Right by the door is a group of three police officers–the oldest of them, a grayhaired man with a large mustache, pauses for a moment and follows us with his gaze as we sit down. Even though we’re in LA, our colorful 50s outfits, made for a sunny day, seem to be a little inconspicuous, but it’s not long before the suddenly revived memories from his youth fade and he returns his attention to the hot bowl of chili on the table in front of him. I order two poached eggs, toast, bacon, cream cheese, a few slices of avocado, marmalade, a glass of juice, and a coffee, and sprinkle some drops of hot sauce over my eggs. I take a bite, and scan the interior of 101 Coffee Shop, trying to savor the moment; I’m in a diner, I’m in LA, and this is the first morning of our 16-day road trip.

STAHL HOUSE, LOS ANGELES

We spend our first two days in LA with our friends Ashley, Daniel, and Fabian. We check the first tacos of the trip off our list, along with the midterm elections with cheap cocktails for anyone wearing an “I voted” sticker on their chest, and another incredible diner breakfast at Cindy’s in Eagle Rock, and then, we just happen to be walking by at the precise moment when Michael Douglas was inducted into the Hollywood Walk of Fame and given his own star. Before we depart for Palm Springs, the first of our many dreams for our trip comes true: we get to see the Stahl House. This mid-century house designed by architect Pierre Koenig was built in 1959, and originally named Case Study House #22. It is located on the slopes above Hollywood Hills, with a breathtaking view of the city. The house was built as a private residence, and found fame through Julius Schulman’s famous photo in which two women relax in armchairs and admire the glittery evening view through the house’s floor-to-ceiling glazing. Today, it’s only open for guided tours. I’m beside myself with excitement; before the whole group has gathered, I’m able to catch a peek through the wall of decorative concrete blocks, and I can feel the hair on my arms standing on end.

When our guide Melissa, who’s married to one of the sons who grew up in the house, finally opens the door to let us in, I’m like a kid in a chocolate factory. This is the most incredible place I’ve ever seen! From the front door, cast concrete aisles lead across the entire front area of the house–a large, turquoise pool–and into various parts of the L-shaped structure; to the left, the master bedroom, and straight ahead, the kitchen and living room. The 19

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“WHEN THE HOLLYWOOD ELITE BEGAN COMING HERE IN THE 30S FOR VACATIONS AND LEISURE, THE FOUNDATION WAS LAID FOR A CERTAIN EXPERIENCE. SINCE MOST OF THE ORIGINAL ARCHITECTURE IS STILL AROUND, INCLUDING MID-CENTURY, SPANISH REVIVAL, AND HOLLYWOOD REGENCY, YOU CAN STILL EXPERIENCE GENUINE MOMENTS OF THE GLAMOROUS LIFE. AS A MATTER OF FACT, THE CITY STILL REVOLVES AROUND COCKTAIL PARTIES AND WARM EVENINGS AROUND THE POOL!”

protruding “glass cube” that I recognize from Schulman’s photograph is suspended high above the steep hillside, and the hazy afternoon sun creates a perfectly lazy, glamorous, leisure-lifestyle mood. All I want to do for the rest of my life is lie down on the softly curved concrete edge and watch the city move down there.

in perfect 50s wear and hair steps out from the reception.

Lindsay Jarvis works at the Orbit In Hotel, as well as being the Senior Editor of Atomic Ranch magazine, and describes herself as a “Palm Tree girl”. She confirms the incredible experience I’ve just had that Palm Springs is still alive–it’s not a museum, a recreation, or kitsch. It’s real.

“When the Hollywood elite began coming here in the 30s for vacations and leisure, the foundation was laid for a certain experience. Since most of the original architecture is still around, including mid-century, Spanish Revival, and Hollywood Regency, you can still experience genuine moments of the glamorous life. As a matter of fact, the city still revolves around cocktail parties and warm evenings around the pool!” she says.

We spend a few dreamy hours by the pool, regularly refilling our 50s glasses with matching ice buckets that are part of the room’s amenities. Before we check out, we get to take a look inside two of the other rooms, which include a perfect kitchenette and a genuine pink-tile bathroom.

ORBIT IN HOTEL, PALM SPRINGS

I wake spontaneously, just before seven–despite my usual early morning tiredness, I’m too excited to see what we arrived to in the dark late last night to go back to sleep. After the tour of the Stahl House, we got stuck in the worst of the afternoon traffic, and we arrived very late for the check-in and complementary cocktail hour at Orbit In Hotel in Palm Springs. But now… I open my eyes in the Eames Studio, a pale yellow room with saturated teal furniture and accents, with Eames arm chairs (of course) and the hotel’s irresistible trademark feature: a record player and LPs in every room. I slip into my robe, open the door, and as though I yesterday wasn’t enough, I experience another aesthetic orgasm of mid-century modern perfection: from one of the hotel’s nine rooms, I’m looking out over a turquoise pool, white sunshades with red and yellow stripes, a bar under a long roof with white spherical lights, lovely banana plants, and long, narrow palm trees that sway gently in the light, warm morning breeze. The pool is heated, and I take a blissful morning swim.

While I eat my breakfast, which includes fresh berries to go with my yoghurt and a real 50s cup for my coffee, I notice that our hotel is located just below one of the famed Palm Springs architect Albert Frey’s houses: “Frey House II”, from 1963–4. Although he is acclaimed for the Palm Springs City Hall and the station for The Aerial Tramway, among other buildings, his own residential house is perhaps the most famous of all, as he incorporated part of the characteristic red mountain side into the house. I hear cha-cha and rhumba emanate from one of the rooms, and just as I’m thinking to myself that “it can’t get any more like I was really living in the 50s than this,” a young woman

JOSHUA TREE: BLYTHE

Two time optimists, still high on palm trees, hit the road again and make for the Joshua Tree National Park. Our plan is to pass by Pioneer Town–the town that was built for Hollywood’s Westerns, and which remains today with a few inhabitants–on the way there. The sudden shift in temperature from the sun and heat in the Palm Springs, which is at low altitude in a valley, to the chill up here on the plateau gives us something of a shock, and we decide to hurry on towards the park instead. We barely make it there in time to catch the last 20 minutes of sunshine and daylight in the park. We curse our own time optimism, and the fact that we missed the famous Pappy and Harriett’s honky-tonk in Pioneer Town, but we’re soon awestruck by the few brief, but golden moments we get to spend in the unique environment of Joshua Tree. After two hours of driving through absolute darkness, we arrive in the community of Blythe, right on the border between California and Arizona, where we check into a Motel 6 for the night. The 20

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Lindsay–a Palm Tree Girl

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A ghost town along the road between Lubbock and Austin.

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next morning, we’re still a little down after yesterday’s misadventure, but our moods are lifted as quickly as butter melts on a freshly fried pancake when we find our way to the Steaks & Cakes diner and receive our daily dose of diner breakfast between teal galloon seats and a group of elderly ladies on a bus tour. The talkative, friendly waitress Megan adds another silver lining to our unplanned stop in the town. However, the guy at the check-out counter in the next-door supermarket asks us “How did y’all end up in a place like Blythe?” So, once we’ve loaded the car up with water bottles and potato chips, we head on along Interstate 10, waving goodbye to California and saying “Howdy” to Phoenix and Arizona.

PHOENIX: THE GRAND CANYON NATIONAL PARK

Arizona. The very thought of it is synonymous with the sight of a threearmed Saguaro cactus. And indeed: almost as if on cue, one of them appears. Two, three, four, five–and then, they’re all around us. It gets even better that evening, after we’ve checked into a motel outside of Phoenix, when we find our way to Papago Park and something called “Hole-in-the-Rock”.

This is an enormous, reddish-brown rock with a naturally formed hole right through it. It’s full of people admiring the magical coral pink, lemon yellow, and increasingly dusky blue sunrise behind the black silhouettes of the tall cactuses. We climb up there, and the framing makes Mira look like an adventurous Vogue fashion shot from 1953. The following morning, we get up at six o’clock, watch the sunrise from the same spot, spend a few dollars on breakfast burritos, coffee, and lunch salads at Whole Foods, and then set off on our three-and-a-half-hour drive to Grand National Park.

THE CANYON CLUB, WILLIAMS

It’s Saturday night, and after recovering from the breathtaking views at the Grand Canyon–never mind how “touristy” people say it is, this is a sight you don’t want to miss!–we’ve checked into the Highlander Motel in the small, nearby town of Williams.

“I’m sorry gals, you just missed the train to the north pole!” the man in the reception tells us, and when we look quizzically at each other, he explains that tonight is this year’s “pajama night”, when all the families in town are supposed to wear matching pajamas and get the Holiday Spirit started with a train that is said to travel all the way to the North Pole and Mr. Santa Claus himself. Having awoken in a more southern part of ­Arizona that morning, to witness the first warm rays of sun over the desert landscape, we’re finding it a little difficult to keep up with this sudden 23

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shift in temperature and environment. Once we reach our rooms, we check the beds for bed bugs, declare them safe, and then decide that this is the worst room we’ve booked so far, despite the gorgeous neon sign outside. However, once we’ve got some of the beer we brought inside us, we start feeling eager to see what this town, which was the last of the classic Route 66 towns to be bypassed by Interstate 40 in 1984, has to offer. With memories of yesterday’s shorts and bikinis by the motel pool still fresh in our minds, we change into pantyhose and denim skirts, slip into plaid Pendleton ’49er jackets, and stuff our feet into a pair of boots each.

After an expensive pizza and a decent, but also expensive, local beer in one of the places in town, we realize that Williams is quite the tourist trap; the charm of the vintage Route 66-themed signs is dampened somewhat when you realize that they’re literally in every corner in town. It feels too closely related to the kitschy decors of the local motorist’s clubs from our youths in the countrysides of Hälsingland and Ångermanland in Sweden – did we really have to travel all this way to see this!?

Things look up, however, when we pluck up the courage to enter the Canyon Club, where three neon signs and posters in the windows reveal that tonight is karaoke night. Inside, we find quite the dive bar waiting for us, complete with advertising signs for different brands of beer and–that’s right–Route 66 memorabilia all over the walls. One of all the men in the place who’s wearing the mandatory combo of boots, wranglers, shirt, and hat grabs the microphone, announces himself the karaoke host for the evening, and then explains the theme for the evening: a man in his early 20s is doing a fundraiser to commemorate his mother, who recently passed away from cancer–his girlfriend is pregnant, and they have substantial medical debts to deal with. The rules are as follows: singing is free, but if someone chooses to stop your song by striking the large gong that’s suspended over the bar, you’ll owe the collection box a certain amount in dollars. We watch in awe as gentleman after gentleman takes the stage with

great swagger, to perform classic country songs in voices like the ones all the stars had back in the day, and bravely persevere in the face of the harsh interruptions of the gong and the subsequent snickering “hehe! I’m gonna make you owe some dollars tonight, Bill!”.

After a beer each, and some kind of shot that the waitress gives us, we decide to sign up to sing a number, and soon, “Maira and Miriam” are called to the stage to sing “Your Good Girl’s Gonna Go Bad” by Tammy Wynette.

“We either do this now or regret it forever,” we agree, and grab a mic each. We sing a part each of the verse, and belt the chorus out in two parts. Two minutes pass by in what feels like seconds, and we’re only gonged once! Soon, we’re back at the bar. “Hey, that was great, really great, you gals are great” our neighbor tells us. Having won the approval of the locals, having seen the collection box filled with dollar bills almost to the point of bursting, and having experienced what feels like a complete Saturday night, we withdraw to our dingy motel, pull the bedcovers up to our necks, and get ready for tomorrow’s long drive to the next state: New Mexico.

WIGWAM MOTEL, HOLBROOK

The sudden changes in the landscape are a never-ending source of fascination. After an hour of driving, Williams–a Twin Peaks-like environment, complete with pine forests, wooden buck and deer sculptures in the roundabouts, people in plaid shirts, and snowy, distant mountain peaks–is far behind us. Suddenly, the road crosses through a desert again, mile-long freight trains pass by slowly to the side of us, and in the distance, I’m beginning to glimpse the reddish-green mountains I’ve been looking forward to seeing throughout the trip, the ones that represent New Mexico, Ghost Ranch, and Georgia O’Keeffe. But we’re not there yet. We exit the highway and head for Holbrook to do some quick sightseeing at a Wig Wam Motel–a remnant from the golden age of the highways, when all the motels used to compete to offer the most spectacular way of spending the night. In 1950, in Holbrook, Wigwam Village number six 24

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We watch in awe as gentleman after gentleman takes the stage with great swagger, to perform classic country songs in voices like the ones all the stars had back in the day, and bravely persevere in the face of the harsh interruptions of the gong and the subsequent snickering “hehe! I’m gonna make you owe some dollars tonight, Bill!”. After a beer each, and some kind of shot that the waitress gives us, we decide to sign up to sing a number, and soon, “Maira and Miriam” are called to the stage to sing “Your Good Girl’s Gonna Go Bad” by Tammy Wynette. “We either do this now or regret it forever,” we agree, and grab a mic each. We sing a part each of the verse, and belt the chorus out in two parts. Two minutes pass by in what feels like seconds, and we’re only gonged once! Soon, we’re back at the bar.

“Hey, that was great, really great, you gals are great” our neighbor tells us.

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Our journey begins on the colorful streets of Los Angeles.

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“HEY, WHERE DID YOU FIND THOSE BOOTS!?” THE MOMENT WE OPEN THE DOOR OF THE ANTIQUE STORE ON THE CORNER OF SOUTH GUADALUPE STREET IN SANTA FE, A HEAVY-SET MAN IN DOUBLE DENIM HOLLERS AT US WITH A BIG, CONTAGIOUS SMILE.

out of a total of seven opened. Each location consisted of the same kind of permanent teepees, arranged to resemble “Indian villages”.

­ eathered hat leads our hour-long tour, and gives knowlw edgeable and entertaining talks on Georgia’s life and work, the old Archuleta rustlers, who used to hide their cattle at the ranch, as well as telling other anecdotes. I’m moved by the landscape, and I wish the American couple next to me, who took the tour to celebrate Veteran’s day, would shut up about their favorite bars in Santa Fe and just appreciate the moment. When the tour is over, we don’t really want to say goodbye to Daniel, or to this absolutely magical place, but the cold bites deep as the dusk sky turns a purply pink, and our stomachs are beginning to rumble.

New Mexico is famous for its green chili (so much so that it adorns the license plates of some cars), and when we sit down, cold and hungry, at the Abiquiu Inn, and I get a steaming bowl of mac’n’cheese topped with little pieces of fresh green chili, I realize what the heat it possesses can do for your soul. I scrape my bowl clean with my spoon and feel my warmth return to me. After a glass or two each of local red wine, we retire to our little casita. Anybody who’s seen Breaking Bad would feel right at home in the New Mexico-style decor, which in this case obviously dates back to the 90s. We tear the bed covers off of the beds and park ourselves in front of the fireplace, and once we’ve fed ourselves some more drinks and the fire some more fuel, we’ve forgotten all about this morning’s snowy shock. We fall asleep to dream of Sierra Pedernal, an artist’s life on the open plains, and the Daniel the wrangler’s green eyes.

ALBUQUERQUE: GHOST RANCH AND ABIQUIU

After traveling deeper into the open plains for about six hours, we arrive in Albuquerque, where we make our first stop at a Cracker Barrel outside the city center. This chain, which is an institution of American nostalgia, offers good ole home cooking, country style, in a Disneyfied environment. Right before Thanksgiving, all the tables are full, and the plates are piled high with fried chicken, southern greens, creamed corn, and fluffy biscuits. Although the place has a slightly insincere air about it, the food is tasty, and surprisingly cheap: we get a generous salad with several plates of sides and unlimited lemonade refills for less than 10 dollars, a price only that only the fast-food joints can rival.

After reading unencouraging reviews like “bed bugs” and “they will steal your car” for pretty much every motel in Albuquerque, we decide to book a room in a slightly more upscale hotel, and settle for a quiet night in. Before we leave town, we check out another diner: Frontier Restaurant. It’s a big, busy place, with decor that’s equal parts John Wayne and Indian trading post. Seeing as they serve tortillas, eggs, and pan cakes, too, it has all the hallmarks of an incredibly safe bet.

A few hours later, we’ve managed to make a nervous but disaster-free trek through an unexpected snowstorm, and suddenly, we arrive at the legendary Ghost Ranch. This is the former dude ranch that was home to one of the greatest 20th century US artists, Georgia O’Keeffe, from the mid30s to the end of the 80s. She abandoned her life in cultured New York for the eternal, open spaces of the Painted Desert, where she made paintings that sell for millions today. We’ve booked a guided trail horse ride, and finally, our prayers are answered: as we enter the stables, a genuine wrangler steps up to meet us. Our broad-shouldered, sun-tanned guide Daniel, in his dirty plaid shirt, rough boots, and

RIO BRAVO TRADING COMPANY, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

“Hey, where did you find those boots!?”

The moment we open the door of the antique store on the corner of South Guadalupe Street in Santa Fe, a heavyset man in double denim hollers at us with a big, contagious smile. While trying to find another store, we’ve accidentally found an even better one along the way, and after 30 minutes of trying things on, watched by the superhumanly patient Randy Rodriguez, who is the unbelievably nice owner of the place, we’ve both found the hats we were looking for.

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A dream come true: Palm Springs.

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A classic, slanted 50s one for Mira, and a slightly squarer 60s one for me.

The moment is made complete by award-winning BBQ brisket sandwiches from the next-door Whole Hog Café.

“GOOD EVENING FOLKS, NOW THIS IS A ROBBERY…”

In the evening, we’re pretty much Melba Mae and Ruby Rae in cowboy hats, bandanas, and matching tassled jackets. We deliver our robbery threats Thelma & Louise style, to the mirror in the bathroom of the Guadalupe Inn. Or maybe, we’re the protagonists of a Brokeback Mountain sequel in which the plot revolves around a wealthy rancher’s wife and a trick master’s lil’ sister, who is the real star. We go out, and find our way the Cowgirl Bar, where we feel our outfits are every bit as costumey as the staff ’s, but we have a pretty good time anyway with a few beers and a shot of bourbon.

Otherwise, Santa Fe feels like it’s all fake exterior. Americans who are interested in cultural pursuits and have plenty of dollars to their names come here to eat Mexican food in fine dining restaurants, shop for turquoise jewelry and interior decoration from the mindbogglingly diverse collection of antique Navajo textiles at the Shiprock Santa Fe gallery. It’s fun to visit–an eye dazzler made with red, turquoise, orange, and white makes me literally weak at the knees–but the gallerist is quite obviously far more interested in making a sale than discussing weaving. We have more success on our quick outing to the nearby village of Chamayo–a place which is iconic among vintage enthusiasts. There, I get to meet the master weavers Irvin and Lisa Trujillo, and fully express my admiration for and talk to these people, who still make their living from their creative work.

The wind-worn, but oh so pretty, sign of the Sun’n’Sand Motel and Restaurant, where we stop to buy a weak cup of coffee and indulge in some cheeky tortillas and addictive black bean chipotle dip from Trader Joe’s out on the parking lot, is the last we see of New Mexico before we cross the border to Texas.

LUBBOCK, TEXAS

“Y’all sisters?” The old man at the Lubbock Antiques mall asks the same question that we’ve already been asked an annoying number of times during our trip, but we soon forget this slight when he gives us a discount on diner cups from the 50s and some irresistible silver jewelry. You can’t help but love these antiques malls, even though they do make us quite frustrated about the luggage restrictions for our journey home.

Warm rays of sun come to rest along the road, and the cotton fields around Lubbock are a sight in their own right. We pass by backwaters 30

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Early bird! After the sunrise in Papago Park, Phoenix.

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A diner breakfast gets the day off to a great start.

Cindy’s diner, LA.

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Weathered resilience–the dreams of the past don’t give up so easily.

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and ghost towns, stop to take photos in the gutted husks of houses and churches, and eat Friday fish fry at an unlikely little restaurant. Outside Post, we get our gas tank filled “full service”.

GINNY’S LITTLE LONGHORN SALOON, AUSTIN

Chicken shit bingo. Ever hear of that? A chicken walks around pecking at tasty seeds in a temporary cage on a board full of numbered squares. Buy a ticket, and you could win 120 or 300 dollars. Keep an eye on the chicken, and hope it makes its mess on your particular number! If you’re lucky, you’ll win, and be awarded a wad of dollar bills onstage. If you don’t win, you’re still bound to have a great time: bingo and an amazing live band who play perfect Honky Tonk and Western Swing music from 4 to 8 p.m. on a Sunday is pretty much our idea of a great night out. When you add to this the fact that a bucket of Lone Stars or PBRs won’t set you back more than 10 dollars, it’s clear that you can afford not only to gamble, but to lose as well.

We’re in Austin, where we’ve met up with our friends Anna and Christopher, who now live in Dallas, for a weekend of two-step, cheap beer, live music, and the time of our lives. Apart from Little Ginny’s, we also two-step at The Continental Club and White Horse, and boy, oh boy, how these Texas men can dance! Couple’s dancing is so alive here; hipsters, eccentrics, and locals all seem to get along just fine on the dance floor, all with their own styles, but all equally polite. A young man who bears a striking similarity to Burt Reynolds, in a well-ironed red silk shirt and creased jeans, makes the approach of the ages when he crosses the floor of White Horse to ask Mira to dance, and at Continental, a trio of tall, present-day cowboys check us out for a while, until one of them asks me to dance, and informs me he is a “traditional Texas two-stepper”. When he asks my name and I tell him, his response, naturally, is “W’ll that’s a purdy name”. Austin is irresistible, or Top Notch, as the classic burger joint from 1971 on 7525 Burnet Road is called. We know it from the movie Dazed and Confused, but what makes us go back is rather the char-grilled burgers, the fried chicken and okra, and the colorful, flashing sign.

Driving along the highways of the US, checking into the motels and inns along the way, drinking beer at a never-ending succession of bars, and meeting people who seem absolutely commonplace, and yet are absolutely unique, is a very special experience. It’s cinematic, dreamy, and a little rough at times. From LA to Austin, and everything in between; experience it once, and forever long to return!

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Fa m e f o r

the pains

Las Vegas Arts District

After a few difficult years, art has come to Vegas to stay, and now, this desert city, which has previously been associated more with late night excesses and timeless extravagance than with contemporary fine arts, is beginning to attract more and more artists.

We visited the Arts District to check out the art that has played a part in changing the city’s image.

WORDS AND PHOTO: JONAS HENNINGSSON

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Dray left California for Vegas, and stayed there. He’s been here since things first began to happen 20 years ago.

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J

I find my way through a colorful hallway where large paintings fill every part of every wall, and big letters spelling A-R-T indicate that art plays first fiddle here. This is the place to be if you’re into contemporary art. Music seeps out from one of the studios. Inside, the artist Dray is working on his latest project.

The painting is spread out on the floor; an explosion of blues and purples, it presents a view of the infinite expanses of the universe. Dray adjusts his hat and peeks out curiously from under the brim, before stuffing his hands into his pockets and beginning to tell his story.

“I’ve been involved in most of what’s gone on here since the very beginning. I moved out here from LA in 1999.

Fame for the pains, you know. I hit the road and came out here.”

That was twenty years ago, but Dray is still here. “So, why Vegas? What brought you here, and what’s keeping you here now?” I ask.

“Exactly, why Vegas…” he thinks out loud. “I was actually headed for Atlanta, but I had two sisters who were living here, so I thought I’d swing by and say hi. That was twenty years ago, and I’m still here now,” Dray continues, and holds up one of his more recent works, as if to find more energy for his responses. His art takes its starting point in abstract expressionism and mural painting, modern and contemporary.

The art boom the city is undergoing right now is actually the second one; the first occurred around the turn of the millennium, right around the time when Dray moved here.

“Yeah, we started organizing an event we called First Fridays around the year 2000. The first Friday of every month, the streets of the Arts District would be closed,

and thousands of people came down here to check out new art. But then, it all died down after the financial crisis of 2008. Everything we’d built was lost, the energy was gone, and everything changed. So, I went to San Francisco for a few years.”

After spending some time on the West coast, Greg began to receive a growing stream of messages from his friends who had remained in Vegas, telling him that he had to return. Things were beginning to happen, and the energy was returning.

“Each time I went back, I saw more murals, more galleries, and more energy. So I decided to move back again.

There is a really great art scene here now, and working in Vegas is great at this point in time, because it really feels like you’re witnessing the early stages of something big and important. It’s all happening right now, and it feels like things are about to explode.

You can see it in the blocks and the streets, too. Nowadays, you can bar-hop along Main Street, and I can tell you it was nothing like that a few years ago–it was pretty dead!” Greg explains. Now, the First Fridays are back, too, bringing crowds of up to 30,000 people to the Arts District.

A CHEERFUL EXTERIOR

The Arts Factory is located in a large building in 18b Arts District, where artists have been given, or made themselves, a space to work in. “This is where we do our thing,” as Dray puts it. The building houses seventeen studios and galleries. You simply can’t help feeling happy when you see the building front. It’s a colorful, low building, which has been subjected to a full-on love-bombing. The phrase “LOVE LAS VEGAS” cuts right through the concrete, in enormous letters that point to the sky, as though the

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39 PHOTO FROM THE BOOK STREET ART LAS VEGAS

From the book Street Art Las Vegas by William Shea and Patrick Laisom (Smallworks Press).

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41 PHOTO FROM THE BOOK STREET ART LAS VEGAS

Deana Koshaba takes a breather on the couch.

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Efter en natts vila kallar vägen på oss igen!

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The desert city’s skyline is in a state of constant flux. And cash remains king.

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PHOTO FROM THE BOOK STREET ART LAS VEGAS

Art has given the city a new boost of confidence, and an identity of its own.

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“Each time I went back, I saw more murals, more galleries, and more energy. So I decided to move back again. There is a really great art scene here now, and working in Vegas is great at this point in time, because it really feels like you’re witnessing the early stages of something big and important. It’s all happening right now, and it feels like things are about to explode. You can see it in the blocks and the streets, too. Nowadays, you can bar-hop along Main Street, and I can tell you it was nothing like that a few years ago–it was pretty dead!”

[DRAY – ARTIST]

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A new day and a new era have begun in Las Vegas.

building itself were an act of love from the gods. Well, if there was anything this city needed, it was art and culture.

Mayor Oscar Goodman realized this, and decided to play an active role in granting culture more space in this gambling city. The investments in art and culture were part of an intentional strategy onhis behalf (and while Goodman is far from a god, he is good at making things happen).

Vegas has benefited greatly from its new-found status as a cultural and gastronomic center (we explored the food in the city in the last issue of Trails – as well as the mayor, or maybe it was the other way round, remember?) ­Mayor Goodman understood that fine art and dining would attract a new kind of visitor to the city, and Vegas grew as a result.

“I made a mural fifteen years ago with the words ‘The Birth of an Art Scene’–it was a comment on what would come to be,” says Greg. There was a whole group of artists living in a cluster of houses in the same block back then, and it was a very creative scene, but then money and gentrisfication came along, and now those houses are a parking lot,” Greg sighs. These unfortunate side effects of progress are the same all over the world. So far, however, this transformation of neighborhoods that no sensible person would want to spend time in to a cool, creative cluster has worked.

The artists are still there, and prices haven’t taken off to the point where they’ve been driven away.

The Arts District is also referred to as 18b, which is a reference to the eighteen blocks that originally constituted 48

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There are plenty of studios in the Arts District, and many of them are open to visitors.

the neighborhood. Today, the Arts District has grown a lot bigger, but the name has stuck. Restaurants, bars, and housing have arrived in the wake of the art. What used to be, for all practical purposes, a no-go zone has become an essential stop on your Vegas vacation.

I thank Dray for his time and walk on through the maze-like building. I pay a visit to Deana Khoshaba, whose intense artwork seems to have left her breathless.

She’s resting on her couch, the only piece of furniture in the studio; gathering her strength or contemplating her work for the evening. We discuss the vitalizing effects of art, and how important it is to any society. As if to underline her point, Deana has filled one wall of her studio with the message “Art is Magical!”

When I wander back out into the streets, night has come to the city. Under the starry, pitch-black sky, I’m blinded by all the artworks that adorn the low stone houses of 18b. Art is certainly magical, and it can definitely change a whole city. And I can tell that Las Vegas has come to that exact conclusion, too. The city has reinvented itself through art.

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“HOW ARE YOU DOING NOW? EAT BEFORE YOU DRINK, WE DON’T WANT TO LOSE YOU!”

B

WORDS AND PHOTO: JONAS HENNINGSSON

efore the afternoon light has even begun to up to join the army when the Vietnam war began, and enbathe the building fronts in that lovely warm ded up in Germany. There, he met a major from Marsing, glow, I sneak into Cactus Bar, which is the olda town that’s in these parts. The major asked Robert what est bar in Boise. There’s a man at the bar who he wanted to do, and Robert told him he liked performing. seems very at home; you can tell he’s a fixture here because “In that case, you should work for me,” the major reof how he’s trusted with the remote control and gets to sponded, and soon, Robert was building a lounge and a choose what will be on the TV. He’s drinking out of a theater for him in Germany. “I was an awful carpenter, but plastic glass, too, which is always a good sign. He greets I made it work.” some other regulars who are seated a Once he had returned to Boise, Rofew chairs down from him. The seat bert ended up working in the hospitanext to him is free, and before long, lity industry, where he would remain.

THE AMERICAN we’re engaging in conversation. RobHe worked for pubs and restaurants. ert Maughan is originally from ScotLater, he moved to Challis, which is Robert Maughan land, but Boise has been his home ever just north of Sun Valley, and there, he CACTUS BAR since the early 60s. Starting in 1962, injured his back lifting a keg of beer.

517 W MAIN STREET he’s also been a constant presence at “That was the end of restaurant BOISE, IDAHO the bar of the Cactus Bar. He’s retired work for me–too much heavy lifting!

TUESDAY, 3:35 P.M. now, but he spent his whole life workSo, I went to work for Western and ing as a chef.

Delta Airlines, and I stayed there for “I learned to cook out of necessity.

11 years. Eventually, that became too My mother was a dreadful cook. My father loved pot roast, much for my back, too. At that point, I went to Vancouand he wanted it well done. So, my mother braised it, and ver, British Columbia, where I attended the Culinary Art and braised it. When she was done, the carrots were like School, which was an amazing school. I finished the twoorange mashed potatoes. Her food had no texture, and theyear program in just over a year–I’ve always been a fast re were no nutrients left in it. One day, I asked her why she learner. I was at the Hillcrest Country Club, Bardenay, and made the pot roast like that, and she told me, ‘well, that’s I ran a Steak & Chop house for a few years. Then, I got a how your dad liked it…’ I replied that he’d been dead for six bit fed up with being in charge and always working. Do you years, and that maybe she should change the recipe. ‘So, you know what it’s like when you’re 50 and everybody else is 20? think you can make a better one?’ she asked me. ‘Of course I Jeez! So, I decided to wind down a bit at The Pantry, making can,’ I said, and after that, I prepared all the food at home.” soups, salads, and deserts. That was easier, so I figured I Robert was 16 when he took over the pots and pans in should manage that even at my age. I mostly made salads. his home. A long career as a chef would follow, but before They came out pretty good, though–I was nominated for that, he worked in the theater for a while. Robert is interBoise’s Best Salad nine years running, and won eight times,” rupted when another regular walks by. Apparently, she’s Robert explains before finishing his drink. He gives the been struggling with a health issue for some time. “How bartender a friendly wink, and soon, there is a new drink are you doing now? Eat before you drink, we don’t want to in front of him. When we return to the present, Boise is lose you!” The woman replies that she doesn’t want to lose shrouded in darkness. I glance over at the other regulars.

Robert either, but that she’s sure he’ll be in here forever.

Nobody seems to have any intention of leaving their seat. I We soon return to our walk down memory lane. Robert set off alone, into the Boise night, with Robert’s stories to didn’t do too well in school, so he dropped out. He signed keep me company.

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THE BORSCHT BELT In the Catskill Mountains north of New York, a Jewish vacation paradise was created. During its heyday, hundreds of hotels in the area accommodated millions of visitors. And then, it was abandoned. This is the story of the Borscht Belt.

T

WORDS: ESTHER BAK • PHOTO: MARTIN BRUSEWITZ

he abandoned buildings are surrounded by tall grass, there is an old projector on the asphalt outside, and many of the windows are broken. Signs exclaim “No trespassing”. The front door is ajar, and in the lobby, water is dripping down from the ceiling onto a moldy wallto-wall carpet. Piles of chinaware littering the floor, large potted plants that have toppled over, an old sun lounger. The enormous dining room is empty, but the vessels that Jewish tradition requires you to wash your hands in while saying a blessing before your meal are still there. The kitchen has double sets of everything, to facilitate keeping kosher. Furniture and beds have been left behind in some hotel rooms. Some old programs from 1989 are lying around in a corner. Back then, this place was buzzing with activity. Here are some examples: The beauty salon, the jewelry store, and the ice rink open at 10 a.m., at 11.30

a.m. there is “exercise with music with Gloria,” between 1 and 2 p.m., there is family swimming, and at 2.30 p.m., an Israeli dance class. In the morning, you could take a “walk in nature with Roy”.

THE JEWISH CATSKILLS

Homowack Lodge, which is named after a nearby creek, was built in the 1950s. It boasted large swimming pools of both the indoor and the outdoor variety. There was a spa, a beauty salon, a popular nightclub, and even a fully automated bowling alley for visitors to unwind in. If you wanted, you could ski in the winter, and play golf in the summer. It was an enormous resort that was full of life; in its glory days, more than a thousand people might be staying here at the same time. Today, it is a spooky, abandoned place, a slowly withering memory of a time long gone. There are plenty of places like it in the area.

We’re in Sullivan County, in the Catskills region of New York State. The Catskill Mountains used to be a 53

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“MY PARENTS WANTED US KIDS TO GET TO SPEND TIME IN NATURE, AND BREATHE SOME FRESH AIR, AND MOST OF ALL GET AWAY FROM THE SUMMER HEAT IN NEW YORK”.

STACI ABELOVE, WHO SPENT HER SUMMERS IN SWAN LAKE WITH HER FAMILY IN THE LATE 1960S.

popular destination for New Yorkers longing for fresher air and milder weather as the inner-city heat hit its peak during the muggy, humid summer months. Large hotels like the Mohonk Mountain House were built in the northern region of the Catskills towards the end of the 19th century, to be visited by well-to-do families. Mohonk Mountain House is a decadent hotel that was built in a Victorian style, at the top of a mountain plateau with a view over the heavy flow of the Hudson River. However, as hotels began to be built in beach properties on Long Island and in nearby Connecticut, interest in the Catskills area faded. Mountains and forests were abandoned for the ocean and the beaches.

The great wave of Jewish immigration, mainly from Eastern Europe, at the close of the 19th century had contributed to rampant overpopulation in the Lower East Side on Manhattan, where most of the new arrivals settled. Families with the means to do so soon began to move north, to get away from these cramped, filthy, and terrible living conditions. But they also did it to get away from racism.

Antisemitism was deeply rooted and systematic all over the USA. After the fact, American participation in the Second World War has been given the appearance of having been an obvious choice, but in fact, the majority of the population was opposed to the country joining the war. Widespread antisemitism was an important underlying cause for this, just as it was for the emergence of the Borscht Belt. For a long time, until the late 1960s, Jews were not welcome in most hotels and private clubs in the Hamptons and other parts of Long Island, or in the country clubs of Connecticut, which were all popular destinations for other white New Yorkers.

“Jews were persecuted in Europe, and they came to the US as refugees. At first, all they wanted was employment and a roof over their heads. But soon, they too began to dream the ‘American Dream’. The Borscht Belt was born out of discrimination and antisemitism, but it became an important and beautiful place,” says photographer Marisa

Scheinfeld, who has studied the area, and who published her photography book The Borscht Belt two years ago.

Jews started buying farms, cabin villages, and small hotels in the Catskills in the 1920s, and in time, they became popular vacation options for Jewish families. Sullivan County began to be referred to as “Solomon County”, and the whole area was called the “Jewish Catskills”, and the “Borscht Belt” after the popular East European soup. The hotels offered kosher food, and an opportunity to celebrate holidays and special events with family and friends. Demand grew, and the hotels were expanded at a brisk pace. The hotel facilities grew increasingly sophisticated, many of them offering their visitors tennis and golf, ice skating and skiing, and swimming and bowling.

These massive hotels pioneered the all-inclusive concept within the vacationing industry. They offered their guests three meals a day, snacks, entertainment, childcare, and all kinds of sporting activities. One of the hotels was so big, it even had its own official post office!

However vast resorts weren’t the only accommodations; there were also humbler motels, and small cabin villages.

“My parents wanted us kids to get to spend time in nature, and breathe some fresh air, and most of all get away from the summer heat in New York,” Staci Abelove, who spent her summers in Swan Lake with her family in the late 1960s, tells us.

She explains that the cabins they rented had two or three smaller apartments in them, each with a few bedrooms, a little kitchen, and a bathroom. Often, whole families or groups of friends would rent the houses together. Staci usually went there with her mom and her siblings, while her dad stayed in New York during the weeks to work. On weekends, her dad would come out to see the family. This was quite a common arrangement back then. She remembers the bubbly mood in the area, and all the children she used to play with. She also remembers the entertainment in the hotels, and tells us how they used to cover the windows and lock the doors 55

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Huset i Abiquiu med fynd frĂĽn hennes vandringar . De blev till levande

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to “protect” the children from inappropriate acts, such as dance performances that were considered too risqué for innocent eyes.

In the 50s, during the glory days of the Jewish Catskills, there were more than 500 hotels and cabin villages in the area. More than a million New Yorkers took their vacations here. The big hotels also played a major role in the development of the entertainment industry.

Woody Allen performed in the Catskills, and comedians like Jerry Lewis, and later Jerry Seinfeld, made their names here. Grossinger’s, which is perhaps the most famous of all the Borscht Belt hotels, had 150,000 visitors each year in the 50s and 60s. It was a glamorous hotel, a “playground for the rich and famous”, and it became a symbol for the Jewish brand of the American Dream.

The cult movie Dirty Dancing is set in a fictional version of Grossinger’s.

THEY ARE DANCING DIRTY

Jackie Horner lives in the little town of Liberty in Sullivan County. Today, Jackie is a frail old lady, but she’s alert, quick-witted, and full of energy, with wide-open eyes and a penetrating gaze. She drives a large, silver Ford, with a license plate that reads “DANCES”. She danced at Grossinger’s for 30 years, and Dirty Dancing is, in part, based on her stories about the hotel. It was her dance student Eleanor Bergstein who wrote the film. “I was summoned to my boss’s office, and I was dreadfully nervous. I thought I’d done something wrong. But there was Eleanor! I hadn’t seen her in years. ‘Jackie, I listened to you,’ she said, ‘I found my dream, and I want you to help me make it come true!’”

Jackie helped her write the script for Dirty Dancing. The title, she explains, was inspired by a man named Milton Blackstone, who saw one of her dance classes, and told 60

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her afterwards: “Your students are dancing too close.” “‘What a prude you are!’ I told him, ‘It’s beautiful, it’s tango.’ And he answered, ‘no, they are dancing dirty’.”

This anecdote reveals a lot about this area’s character. It was a vacationing paradise built by Jews, and being shaped in part by religion and in part by the times, it was largely conservative. However, this was also a time of upheaval, and the Borscht Belt was a place were different perspectives on life would come into contact with one another.

Gambling for money, dance performances, flirting, and nightclubs were equally important aspects of the area’s charm as religious ceremony and kosher food.

designed and lead the rebuilding efforts. The hotels were modernized and air-conditioned, and large pools were added, both indoors and outdoors. The owners wanted glamorous nightclubs and vast, open, well-designed lobbies. This often resulted in great architectural variety, as many of the hotels had grown and been rebuilt without the involvement of proper architects at times when the owners did not have access to good funding. In the second half of the 50s, the major hotels hired renowned architects like Morris Lapidus and Herbert Phillips, who designed the Nevele Country Club’s dodecagonal or twelve-sided tower. This building is the only of its kind in the Catskills, and it’s still there to this day.

When we arrive at Nevele, the interiors of the buildings are dark despite the bright sunshine outdoors. The ceilings are dripping, and walking across the moss-covered wallto-wall carpeting is an odd sensation. It’s humid in here;

MID-CENTURY ARCHITECTURE

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THE JEWISH CATSKILLS FELL INTO RUIN LIKE A LINE OF TOPPLING DOMINOES. MANY OF THE HOTELS HAD ACCUMULATED EXCESSIVE DEBT OVER PROLONGED PERIODS OF TIME. THEY WERE IN COMPETITION FOR THE DISTINCTION OF BEING THE MOST LUXURIOUS, BIGGEST HOTEL OF ALL.

the walls, ceilings, and floors are covered in mold, and the air is thick with spore. Beautiful weeds worm their ways out of floorboards and carpets. We have to step carefully across piles of old chinaware and broken glass. Suddenly, we’re blinded as the sun reaches deep inside the large halls.

The hotel rooms a few floors up are brighter, less busy. In some of them, you can still make out the dull colors: lots of hues of beige and brown, and pastel pinks and yellows. We walk through glass hallways that wind their way through the landscape to connect the tall buildings to one another.

After finding the big indoor swimming pool, we have to climb stairs covered in bushes and little trees to reach the outdoor pools with the large sunning decks. There is also a ski slope with a lift, and a big skating rink with a beautiful wooden roof. Forgotten Siddurs, or prayer books, are left behind by a window in a lobby. Next to the indoor tennis courts, some birds have built a nest over a doorway. The magnificent dining rooms are empty, but in a deserted bar, there is an old sherry bottle that was left behind after a new year’s party. We stumble over abandoned furniture and telephones. In the box seats by the skating rink, there are skates neatly lined up, ordered by size. Skis and helmets have also been left behind, and the forms you had to fill in to rent them are strewn across the floor. There are old cigarette packets in some of the corners.

The smaller hotels had to close their doors first. For a few years, the larger ones managed to attract some of their customers instead. But the ones that had closed in the 70s remained derelict, and as they fell into ruin, they contributed to the general deterioration of the whole area.

The comedy and entertainment industry that had flourished in the hotels in the 50s and 60s now seemed rather dated to the younger generation. The hotels, desperately trying to attract younger visitors, updated their interiors with 80s styling, and put more emphasis on healthy eating and sports. This last attempt, however, only ended up adding to their growing debts and expenses, and many of the businesses were brought to their knees. The hotels were family-owned and family-run, and when the older generation of owners passed on, that was the final nail in the coffin for most of them.

The derelict, once-proud hotels of Sullivan County possess a certain beauty today. While they no longer bring hundreds of thousands of people to the beautiful valleys and mountains of the Catskills, they do tell a story of past resilience and cultural wealth. A Jewish longing to belong and be equal participants in society. Many of the hotels have been demolished, some of them have been converted into casinos or spas, and others have become schools and summer camps for orthodox Jewish children. Some of them remain, as empty shells, invaded by graffiti, moss, and creeper vines. Huge, gargantuan reminders of a time gone by. As Marisa Scheinfeld says: “It’s just what Americans do: We use things, places, and people up. We devour them and love them. And then we move on. Find something else. Travel to a new place. And forget what once was.

FORGETTING WHAT ONCE WAS

The Jewish Catskills fell into ruin like a line of toppling dominoes. Many of the hotels had accumulated excessive debt over prolonged periods of time. They were in competition for the distinction of being the most luxurious, biggest hotel of all. At the same time, the Civil Rights Movement was picking up steam, and gaining influence, and American society was changing quickly. Antisemitic sentiments no longer prevented Jews from vacationing in the beach resorts. In the 70s and 80s, plane tickets became cheaper, and air conditioning became affordable for most New Yorkers.

This story about the Borscht Belt was previously published in Swedish Rum magazine.

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To Dive for

FROLIC ROOM HOLLYWOOD BLVD, LOS ANGELES WORDS: MARTIN BRUSEWITZ • PHOTO: EMIL WESOLOWSKI

In many ways, the Frolic Room bar in Los Angeles is the opposite of the city where it’s located.

While LA is huge, sprawling, and soaked in California light, the bar is small, cramped, and dark.

The Frolic Room remains unchanged through the decades, while LA vibrates with change and youthfulness. There’s no room for the old in a city that manufactures dreams and is always looking ahead. Apart from the Frolic Room, that is.

This little bar is so dimly lit that everybody who enters stays by the door for a moment, standing still, before they walk up to the long bar along the left side. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. The bar officially opened in 1934, then called Bob’s Frolic Room, but it had already been in operation illegally for several years during the prohibition era, when selling alcohol was illegal in the USA. “There’s a secret door in the roof over there, with a passage leading to the Pantages theater next door. The actors used to crawl through it to get a drink after their performances. Now, we just use it for extra storage,” explains Troy, the bartender, when we visit the bar one Wednesday afternoon.

Over the decades, the Frolic Room has been visited by many of LA’s legendary citizens. Frank Sinatra and Judy Garland were regulars. The dive was one of the drunkard and writer Charles Bukowski’s favorite bars. This was also the last place Elizabeth Short, better known as The Black Dahlia, was seen alive before she was murdered in 1947. The bar is rich in history, and countless souls have stepped into the haze in this little cavern on Hollywood Boulevard. Perhaps it’s precisely because it is so different from the city outside that this bar has been so loved over the decades? The darkness gives you something else, a distinct contrast. Or maybe, this contrast simply obscures the true reality? Maybe the bustle and luxury of Los Angeles, with its sun-kissed hills and glamor, the ever-glistening dream factory, is so much a facade and a projection of a desired reality that the charm of the Frolic Room lies in the fact that this tiny, pitch-dark, beerscented, claustrophobic little place affords space to the real spirit of the city?

6245 HOLLYWOOD BLVD, LOS ANGELES

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The atmosphere at Ronda Margarita is a lot more relaxed than this intimidating lady at the cooking pots lets on.

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Holy Mole!

Eating grasshoppers? You bet! Munching ants’ eggs? Si claro!

Chugging mezcal? Always! Which city is the best food destination in the world? For us, this seemingly impossible question has an obvious answer: whenever we want world-class food and drink, we always go to Mexico City. It all begins and ends in the La Roma district.

A

WORDS AND PHOTO: JONAS HENNINGSSON

A rhythmic squeaking wakes me. A slow, meditative ditty, which enters through the halfopen window and penetrates my mind. It’s soon joined by an angry airplane, which has just taken off and is making its way to the skies. A few birds take up the challenge, possibly hummingbirds–they usually gather outside my window, in the jacaranda and hibiscus trees whose leaves lull me to sleep in the night-time breeze. La Roma. I’m in La Roma, and I’m in love! With the colors, the shapes, the noises, the scents, the people! And with the night, which didn’t end until the pale, yellow light of morning began dancing around in the puddles that have gathered along the well-maintained sidewalks. It never does here, the night. Ends, that is. It always transitions into early day before you’re finished squeezing every last bit out of this glorious, crazy city’s night-time offerings.

For the last six months, I’ve seen the trendiest part of Mexico City through a black-and-white filter. I suppose

that’s true of anyone who was touched by the powerful cinematography of Alfonso Cuarón’s epic Roma.

The scenes that were shot here have been firmly rooted in my mind ever since I watched Cuarón’s childhood account with wide-open eyes. I’ve been here before, after all, seen it all before. La Roma is my favorite neighborhood in this sprawling urban mass; an oasis in the otherwise constant cacophony of noise and motion. But Cuarón made me experience the area in a way I never had before. The everyday activities in the streets. A group of musicians stop to let their instruments sing, directing their music at the windows in the hope of receiving some coins. Further away, a man leans a ladder against the trees and heads towards the skies to trim them. Soon, a garbage truck arrives, filled to the brim, with three men balancing on the top of the pile of waste. They’re gliding along royally up there, gazing right through my window even though I’m staying in a second-story apartment. And then, the truck that drives past every day, with loudspeakers announcing that they’ll take your old freezer or cooker; “just toss it to us, we’ll take care of it, isn’t that great?” The place, 69

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OUTSIDE THE MARKET, MEN IN APRONS DART AROUND PURPOSEFULLY, DRAGGING CARTS STACKED WITH VEGETABLES AND MEAT. THEY ARE CALLED DIABLEROS, AND ARE NAMED FOR THE CARTS THEY PULL AROUND TO PROVIDE RESTAURANTS WITH FIRST-RATE INGREDIENTS. WE FOLLOW A DIABLERO TO OUR NEXT DESTINATION.

both limiting us and forming connections. Time passing by unnoticed, just like that slow, squeaky cart rolling by outside my window. The noise fades a little. The cart is drawn by an old woman; she’s tugging it along with great determination, one step at a time. She passes by here every day, perhaps she’s hoping to get back home before the afternoon rain arrives in the city. I’d bet anything she’d like to be in shelter by then. Sometimes, it gets so wet that even the birds stop singing. They slowly gasp for breath, unable to catch it until the moon appears over the low, pastel-colored stone houses and the bad-intentioned clouds move on to terrorize other neighborhoods. At the crossing, she turns right, just like I always do. I scramble into my clothes and follow her steps. You see, my favorite taco stand is on the corner of Ures and Tehuantepec.

Well, OK, I should really say it’s my favorite taco stall at this particular crossing, because there are so many of them in this city that just thinking of it makes you dizzy. Any neighborhood with any kind of self-respect has at least one cart where they make tacos that you would never have imagined possible. In this city, street food is a matter of pride, tradition, expertise, and, not insignificantly, astoundingly good ingredients. These are flavors to fall hopelessly in love with. Even Bangkok can’t compete when it comes to street food. I greet the woman behind the pans, and after a smattering of sentences, she wishes me a nice day and produces three tacos. In the mornings, you mainly get vegetarian tacos, but when darkness falls, the tortillas are filled with meat. As usual, I stop talking after my first bite. The food has that effect on you; eating in Mexico City tends to leave you dumbstruck. The textures, the scents, the flavors!

“These tortas have 25 different spices in them, La Jerssey was the first real deli here,” explains Cecilia Núñez, who has agreed (after some nagging on my part) to spend the week taking me to some of her favorite food joints in the city. Cecilia is the editor-in-chief of Food & Travel, where I contribute pictures and articles (Cecilia in turn writes articles for American Trails), and knows all there is to know about the food culture of her native country. The flavors are everything, and embellishment is non-existent; the food is brought out on colorful plates covered with protective plastic bags, with the food on top, but we’re too busy enjoying how it all tastes to ask about that.

“My family has worked here at the mercado for four generations,” owner Alexandra Castros explains while she pushes more plates our way. Jamón de pavo, turkey ham, and dessert tapas with mascarpone and figs, honey and nuts. Wine!

Outside the market, men in aprons dart around purposefully, dragging carts stacked with vegetables and meat.

They are called Diableros, and are named for the carts they pull around to provide restaurants with first-rate ingredients. We follow a Diablero to our next destination.

CENTRO

In Centro, the downtown area, we tumble into Casa de las Sirenas to sample their raicilla liqueur.

“It’s similar to mezcal, but more aromatic,” Cecilia says.

At Cantina La Opera along Cinco de Mayo street, we order margaritas and frijoles, or beans, from our waiter Fernando Ramirez.

“They make their margaritas just as light and as natural as they should be, here, using nothing but lime, ice, and tequila. Since the late 19th century, La Opera has been a meeting place for intellectuals and politicians, and it’s something of a sanctuary in the busy Centro area. I actually had my last birthday dinner here,” Cecilia elaborates. Fernando helps her tell her story, and points out the spot in the ceiling where the revolutionary Pancho Villa’s bullet lodged itself when he fired his revolver in here in

THE BEST FOOD DESTINATION IN THE WORLD

Mexico City is the best food destination in the world. Full stop, end of discussion. At Mercado San Juan, we stop at Delicatessen La Jerssey to eat wonderfully stringy curd cheese from Oaxaca, drink red wine from Baja California, and stuff ourselves with glorious tortas (sandwiches).

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For everything bad, mezcal, and for everything good as well. Salud!

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WE WITHDRAW FROM THE COMMERCIAL HUBBUB, AND DRINK SOME TEA AT THE COOL, RETRO-STYLED TÉ CUANTO, WHICH IS IN THE CORNER OF THE PARK, AND THINK ABOUT HOW THE AREA HAS CHANGED OVER THE LAST CENTURY OR SO. THIS PARK WAS PART OF THE SANTA ANITA RANCH, AND LOADS OF FRUIT TREES WERE PLANTED HERE AT THE END OF THE 19TH CENTURY.

1910. You can still see the bullet hole in the stucco, which ­resembles the top of a cake.

We plod along Calle de Bolívar, making our way down to one of Cecilia’s favorite taco joints, Taqueria Cocuyos, which is an unassuming little hole in the wall. It’s chaotic, busy, and hot, and the three cookers skillfully manage to slice their cleavers into their chunks of meat without hurting each other. It’s so crowded here that it would be difficult to squeeze even another single tortilla in, but somehow, they still manage to control their weaponry. The queue in front of this performance seems disorganized at first glance, but everybody still seems to know whose turn it is somehow. We all patiently await our rewards. Public servants in ties and ragged types of lesser means alike. All in the same light, submitting to the same power: the chef who makes their dreams come true right in front of them. Ojo (eye) and lengua (tongue) tacos, vegetarian nopales, campechano, beef, piled up in big heaps. And sauces to bring out the flavors, salsa verde and salsa taquera. “It’s so good, its incredible” Cecilia responds when I ask her what it is that makes Cocuyos so good that she never fails to ride past here whenever she goes mountain biking. And, again, she goes on: The flavors. The saltiness. The heat. The textures.

It’s like a religious mantra. Food simply can’t taste any better than this. There’s no better way of combining ingredients.

the corner of the park, and think about how the area has changed over the last century or so. This park was part of the Santa Anita ranch, and loads of fruit trees were planted here at the end of the 19th century. Tejocote trees were the most popular, and ash trees still grow in the park today, alongside elm, jacaranda, and palm trees. At the corner of the park is the Catholic church Parroquia del Señor del Buen Despacho, which looks more like a hacienda than a house of God. Our morning walk through the greenery has made us hungry, so we cut across to Fonda Margarita. Fondas serve everyday fare and are a simpler kind of establishment. They’re usually run by families who open a place to serve food to the locals that live in their neighborhood.

It’s kind of like a greasy spoon, Mexican style, and they serve breakfast from 5 am, good quality food at affordable prices.

“Anthony Bourdain came here once for a shoot,” Cecilia tells me, and I think to myself that Tony always used to have a good sense for quality. Cecilia nods, smiling; she knows, too. Fonda Margarita is a lop-sided shack that embodies an unadulterated love of food. At the far end of this little space, in the open kitchen, food is simmering in enormous clay pots. We order beans, chilaquiles, frijoles con huevo, and tortitas de carne. It’s steaming seductively, and it smells wonderful. We’ve only just sat down when a three-man band enters to perform some catchy tunes while we enjoy our lunch. To accompany the music and the food, we drink coffee out of huge clay mugs. Perhaps that’s the whole idea: the music makes us eat faster, as the catchy rhythm gets our jaws moving. When we’re done eating, around two o’clock, the family working the pots have finished their days’ work, while ours is only just beginning.

DEL VALLE

The following morning, we watch the sunlight sprinkle down between the palm tree leaves in Jardín del Arte Tlacoquemécatl. Now, before you read on, relax! Nobody actually says Tlacoquemécatl. Try Tlaco, it’s a lot less unwieldy. We go from market stall to market stall, where still-weary salesmen make half-hearted attempts at pushing sunglasses on us (“no gracias”), or plastic toys (“no gracias”), or shoes (“no gracias por favor!”). But what about this kitchenware?

We withdraw from the commercial hubbub, and drink some tea at the cool, retro-styled Té Cuento, which is in

WE’RE CRAZY ABOUT EVERYTHING

The next morning, we slip into Agua y Sal, in the beautiful Polanco district, which attracts many expats and well-off Mexicans, as well as foodies from all over the world. Agua 72

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Fine wine and fine dining at Gloutonnerie - Barbacoa breakfast: hangover cure extraordinaire, at El Hidalgense.

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Coyoacan is one of the best neighborhoods in the city. There are lots of essential food stops, and the best place to hang out is around the plaza.

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You haven’t truly visited the capital if you don’t make it to the mercado.

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Scorpions getting ready to march into a cooking pot.

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I know a good game: let’s squeeze a food cart into every corner in the city!

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WE ORDER CHAMPAGNE AND STARTERS: GRASSHOPPERS AND ANT’S EGGS, CHAPULINES AND TOSTADAS DE ESCAMOLES. AND TACOS TO DIE FOR.

y Sal is one of our favorite restaurants in the food mecca that is Mexico City. The owner of the restaurant, Rodrigo Estrada, meets us at the entrance. Rodrigo was born here in the city, but moved to Cuernavaca, south of the metropolis, at the age of two. Just as people in the northern part of the city escape to Valle de Bravo, the south siders long for a retreat, and so, they run off to Cuernavaca for the weekends. After school, fate brought him back, and he began to work at Las Mananitas, which is a Relais & Châteaux hotel. He learned a great deal there before heading on to Riviera Maya, and Tulum, where he worked as a chef.

“After that, I had a completely different job, which actually turned out to be the most important of all. I worked in the pet product sector and traveled to every state in Mexico. I made lots of money, and I was able to visit hotels and restaurants all over the place. I learned so much about the food culture in this country during those years.”

After two years on the road, eating and taking note, Rodrigo was ready to open his first own place. Next, he went to San Francisco for eight years, which is where he learned more about Peruvian cuisine.

“I was always into ceviche, and Peruvian food. Then, one day, I found out that Gastón Acurio, who had long been a great ambassador of Peruvian food culture, was about to make a major investment in San Francisco. So, I began to rearrange my life in order to get a job at La Mar.” Rodrigo succeeded in getting hired, and soon traveled to Peru to learn even more about the food and the culture.

And that was that. He soon returned to his home city, with his family in tow, to open Agua y Sal, which is where we’re sipping coffee right now. The lunch crowd hasn’t arrived yet, and the place is still quiet and calm. Rodrigo spends this time on things he never has the time for otherwise. Emails, messages, planning the rest of the day. And taking coffee with us. Yep, Agua y Sal is definitely one of our favorite restaurants in the city. We’ve had amazing ceviche here, made the way Rodrigo learned to when he fell in love with the Peruvian cuisine that Gastón Acurio

did such a good job promoting. I can still wake up at night thinking about Rodrigo’s Pulpo Enamorado (an octopus salad with tomato, onions, serrano peppers, cilantro, mayonnaise, and avocado), Esquites con Camarons (corn on the cob with shrimp, cotija cheese, butter, mayonnaise, lime, and chili), and, best of all: his ceviches. My favorite last time was A la Leña, with fish, shrimp in a divinely smoky rayado pepper sauce, red onions, cilantro, jalapeño, corn, and smoked sea salt from the Pacific Ocean.

“Yes, the rayado pepper is smoked and dried for three days up in the Sierras, the mountains, and it comes out great with all these smoky flavors,” Rodrigo says, flashing a smile informed by empirical experience.

He’s careful to point out that Agua y Sal is not a Peruvian restaurant; rather, it is a Latin American seafood restaurant which is becoming increasingly inspired by Mexican food. But what was it about the Peruvians and their ceviche that won him over so completely?

“It’s the flavors. They know exactly how much salt, acidity, and heat you need to put into every flavor, and every dish. They don’t hold back. I remember how I always used to add salt to every meal during my eight years in San Francisco. And then, when I went to Lima, I never touched a salt shaker! They know exactly.”

Every year, Rodrigo incorporates more and more Mexican flavors and products (remember his travels for the pet supply business).

“I’m sure that within a few years, Agua y Sal will have become a contemporary Mexican restaurant. What’s happening now is that we’re bringing our street food into the restaurants, into fine dining. We’re crazy about everything!

Take something as simple as esquites–a corn dish tweaked with shrimp–people love it!”

FOR EVERYTHING BAD, MEZCAL, AND FOR EVERYTHING GOOD AS WELL

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La Jerssey makes the best sandwiches ever.

nothing new under the sun–people have always done that here. They’ve always eaten insects, chowed down on larva, munched ants, and enjoyed ant’s eggs. Chapulin, which isn’t far from Agua y Sal, is a cool, elegant oasis inside the fashionable Intercontinental Presidente hotel. We’re always excited to see the new creations of their chef Josefina López Méndez. So, we slip inside during the afternoon, when the restaurant is peaceful and calm. We know we’ll be staying here for hours. We order champagne and starters: grasshoppers and ant’s eggs, chapulines and tostadas de escamoles. And tacos to die for. We drink wine and mezcal with our food. Josefina López Méndez tells us that her creations are all based on two things: Mexico and her memories.

“I’m inspired by my country, the people here, and my family.”

She doesn’t mind being a woman in a world that is otherwise dominated by men at all. “I only make the food I make because of women. It was my grandmothers who taught me how to use corn and chocolate, and make molé–they taught me on their wood stoves. I learned a lot from my mom, too, she really spoiled us with her perfect seasoning.”

We think to ourselves that she’s also been influenced by her home region of Oaxaca, and the foodstuffs they use there; Josefina works with chocolate, pennyroyal, grasshoppers, angelica, purple and white corn, and chile chilhuacle.

When we begin to reach the final stages of our long dinner, sommelier and mezcal expert Nicolas Nolk Uribe gives a lecture on how this agave spirit, which is mostly produced in Oaxaca, is best enjoyed: “Taste it, let the mezcal move around slowly, like this.

Hold your nose and breathe out slowly,” he instructs us as we sample a Cuish. The flavors are mindboggling; they have a complex herbiness and smokiness to them.

I think about how the terroir impacts the flavor, and I’m just about to ask Nicolas about it when I’m reminded of the expression Para todo mal, mezcal, y para todo bien, también. (For everything bad, mezcal, and for everything good as well). Mezcal is everything. Salud!

After our dinner and mezcal tasting, Nicolas shows us around their wine cellar.

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Holy Molé! Now that’s flavor! The most common ones are black, green, and red molé, but the varieties are endless. What do you wash it down with? Mezcal, of course.

bottles, give or take,” he says, his eyes gleaming with delight. “Since we place orders for all of our hotels, we’re able to make large purchases from small producers, which gives us exclusive access and allows the wineries to plan ahead,” he explains. Personally, I’m pretty happy just to get to look at some bottles I never thought I’d ever see in this lifetime.

these human encounters produces is contagious rather than exhausting. Street vendors offer magnificent esquites and elotes, grilled corn with cheese and mayonnaise. Yummy!

Also available are churros, buñuelos, bandarillas, sausages, and tacos (of course). Even yummier! Thousands of people celebrate the start of the weekend right here, on the plaza, in front of the imposing baroque church of San Juan Bautista, under the sky and the stars. The plaza, which is the heart of this small town in the center of the metropolis, is divided into two sections: Jardín Centenario and Jardín Hidalgo. In one corner, Casa de Cortés, the Spanish conquistador Hernán Cortés made his home in the 16th century.

Children play tag around the fountain at the center of the park. Loving couples only have eyes for each other, and tangle themselves into embraces on park benches under the shelter of the trees. The dogs have all realized that the weekend is coming, and gleefully (and a little pathetically) bounce around in circles. But it’s plain to see that they’re enjoying the atmosphere too, and why not leave them to it? We’d hate to be buzzkills at this party.

At Los Danzantes, we order mole, mole, and even more mole. And Holy Mole! It’s so good! Naturally, we wash it

HOLY MOLE!

The next evening, just as dusk settles over Coyoacán, we return to another of our favorite microcosms within this overwhelming urban universe. This was Frida Kahlo’s neighborhood, and first, we considered taking a trip back to Casa Azul, the artist’s childhood home, which was also the last place she lived. However, we think better of it when we see the queue winding its way down the street. Instead, we do what Frida used to do: go out for a bite and a drink (she and her boyfriend, the super celebrity painter Diego Rivera, used to frequent the La Guadalupana cantina, but unfortunately, it was recently closed).

In Coyoacán, the streets are always bustling with life.

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22 million people, and more magical food sensations to be had than there are stars in the sky.

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FONDA MARGARITA IS A LOP-SIDED SHACK THAT EMBODIES AN UNADULTERATED LOVE OF FOOD. AT THE FAR END OF THIS LITTLE SPACE, IN THE OPEN KITCHEN, FOOD IS SIMMERING IN ENORMOUS CLAY POTS. WE ORDER BEANS, CHILAQUILES, FRIJOLES CON HUEVO, AND TORTITAS DE CARNE.

down with Mezcal. We sneak a peek at passers-by, and rest our eyes on the moon and the pitch-black sky, which has chosen a shimmering outfit this evening. Millions of stars, in imaginative constellations–the Universe is presenting a creative display for us to just kick back and enjoy. We decide to dance on through the night, and head on to a nearby club.

Cooley, who hovers over to greet us with a royal air about him. He goes on to giving passionate speeches about food and wine culture during a long, delightful lunch that we take out on the terrace. We start out with champagne, move on to a Mexican red wine, Paoloni Verone, from the producer Villa Montefiori in Valle de Guadelupe, and finish it all off with a Tokaj Oramus much, much later. In between, we sample Escargot a la Bourguignonne, ceviche, and roast veal. Holy mole–again.

Miguel is a lawyer who changed careers and became a restauranteur and sommelier. Now, he runs two French restaurants–Lipp La Brasserie, the other one, is just a few blocks away from here.

He’s also a great ambassador of wine, who spreads the word about wine culture all over the country by giving workshops, hosting tastings, and writing about wine. His modesty prevents him from revealing that just the other year, he was named sommelier of the year. However, his passion gives him away. You can easily tell that Miguel is intensely dedicated to wine.

“When I first began learning more about wine, it was out of necessity, but I soon fell in love with it. Today, it’s still important for me to learn more and more each day.

It’s a whole world, it’s endless, and the people here really want to learn about it.”

After yet another gloriously endless day and night, we wander slowly beneath the blooming hibiscus trees of La Roma. Our little taco stand is still open, of course, and we have another late-night snack, of course. We inhale the scents of spring and expectation between bites.

Dawn awaits, like a promise lingering over the canopy, but we can still see the moon, which has grown full by now, through the tangle of leaves. A new day is coming, and it won’t be long before that lady drags her squeaky cart down the street outside my window.

BARBACOA

There’s nowhere else where amazing breakfasts are as essential a part of life as they are in Mexico City. There’s also nowhere else where a solid breakfast is as important, because there’s nowhere else where people party as much as they do here. As though this particular night, whichever one it is, were the last night ever. So, the next morning, we sit down along one of the walls inside El Hidalguense.

The family who run the place only open it three days a week, and spend the rest of their time hanging out in Hidalgo, an area that is a few hours’ drive outside Mexico City. That’s where they live and prepare the sheep meat that will enrich the lives of hung-over city dwellers in the weekend to come. The meat is placed in a pit in the ground, where it is slow-cooked with smoke and fire for days before it’s done, and the couple can head back to the city. We’re enjoying the fruits of this week’s labor right now: tacos de barbacoa, sharing room on our plates with queso fresco con elote and huevos rancheros. Every bite brings us one step closer to normalcy, and our suffering after last night’s revelry is soothed a little. Barbacoa is the mother of all hangover food.

GLUTTONY

Seemingly by coincidence, we end up at Gloutonnerie (although, of course, there are no coincidences involved, and Cecilia has a detailed gastronomic plan that we are following to the letter). Gloutonnerie? Yep, you’re getting it, it’s one of the mortal sins, gluttony. Any questions?

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13 AMAZING DISHES

CHILAQUILES Breakfast at its absolute best: Yesterday’s tortillas, fried and placed into a pan with chicken, green chili sauce, onions, cheese, and cream.

The whole dish is baked in the oven, and ideally enjoyed along with a fried egg.

CHAPULINES Fried grasshoppers, which go incredibly well with stringy Oaxaca cheese and heavenly guacamolé.

It doesn’t get any better than this.

FRIJOLES CON HUEVO Beans, tomatoes, lime, eggs, and tortillas, flavored with garlic, Spanish peppers, cumin, and cilantro. Whatever you do, don’t miss an opportunity to try this dish!

TOSTADAS DE ESCAMOLES Ant’s eggs fried in butter, unbelievably delicious.

NOPALES These flavorful, oval cactus leaves see a lot of use in Mexican cuisine.

MEZCAL

TACO CAMPECHANO Beef and pork are the foundation of one of the best tacos around. Usually grilled beef, or chicharrón, and longaniza sausage, mixed together.

Mezcal is made from the heart of the piña agave, just as it has been for the last 200 years. The word comes from the Nahuatl mexcalli, a contraction of metl and ixcalli, which means “oven-cooked agave”. The vast majority of all Mezcal is produced in Oaxaca, but smaller quantities are also made in Durango, Guanajuato, Guerrero, San Luis Potosí, Tamaulipas, Zacatecas, Michoacan, and Puebla. It’s not clear if they made mezcal here before the Spanish arrived. The Spanish were introduced to pulque, a fermented drink that the native population have made for a long time.

Mezcal is best enjoyed neat, in small glasses, ideally complemented with a snack of sal de gusano (worm salt): a slice of orange seasoned with a mixture of fried larva, chili powder and salt.

TACOS DE BARBACOA Slow cooked sheep (or goat or beef), which is the core element of another world-class taco. Impossibly tasty.

QUESO FRESCO CON ELOTE Corn rolled in cotija cheese. Simply divine.

ESQUITES OCH ELOTES Corn dishes that are best bought in the street.

An absolute treat.

CHURROS Yummy pastries made from fried flouror potato-based dough.

EXPRESSIONS FROM OAXACA: Para todo mal, mezcal, y para todo bien, también.

(For everything bad, mezcal, and for everything good as well).

PULPO ENAMORADO A salad that includes octopus, tomatoes, onions, serrano peppers, cilantro, mayonnaise, and avocado.

SO, WHERE SHOULD YOU STAY?

ESQUITES CON CAMARONES Corn on the cob with shrimp, cotija cheese, butter, mayonnaise, lime, and chili.

¡CALMA! - WE HAVE A GUIDE TO MEXICO CITY ON OUR WEBSITE

CEVICHE A LA LEÑA Fish, shrimp in smoky rayado pepper sauce, red onions, cilantro, jalapeño, and corn, served with smoked sea salt from the Pacific Ocean.

AMERICANTRAILSMAG.COM

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Greenwich Steps.

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PORTFOLIO

BY PHOTOGRAPHER ANNAR BJØRGLI

Indian Creek.

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Steiner Street.

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Buena vista Park.

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After falling in love with Seattle and the Pacific Northwest during a photography job in 2006, I brought my wife and my nine-year-old daughter back to share the love four years later. During the three weeks we spent there, we drove south for five days, and went down to San Francisco. It was an inspiring trip, which resulted in 30 rolls of film and a load of great shared memories for our little family. Colombia River, Canon Beach, Indian Creek, Seaport, Banden, Arcata, Lost Coast, Pistol River, and Highway 1.

So, when American Trails reached out to me to ask if I would show a portfolio in the magazine, it felt like an obvious idea to dig out my old negatives.

Annar Bjørgli

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Garfield Elementary School.

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Lost Coast.

Washington Park.

Sugarloaf Island.

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Capetown.

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Telegraph Hill.

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Dosewallips.

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Chris Rock Island.

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Arcata.

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A Stateless Capital

There is a truckload of things to discover in the capital of the USA. Once you’ve checked the White House, the United States Capitol, and the Lincoln Monument off your list, make sure to visit the wonderful museums, most of which offer free admission. But then, after you’ve done all those things, check out this guide!

WORDS: JONAS LARSSON • PHOTO: ANDERS BERGERSEN

FOTO: JONAS HENNINGSSON

Oohhs n Aahhs

Soul food joints don’t get any better than this.

It’s busy, and hot, but friendly and tasty, and their chicken and waffles keep us coming back. oohhsnaahhs.com

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Blagden Alley

Blagden Alley is nestled between M and N street, and 10th and 9th street. Once, this was where the poorest of D.C.’s poor lived, but now, it’s an incredibly hip hub for food, cocktails, and murals.

CALICO Calico is referred to as an “urban backyard”, and the label definitely fits. Located in an old brick building, it is a modern beerhall with a contemporary menu.

Extra points for the big terrace, which is a great place to hang out and relax. Don’t miss the great murals on the walls that surround the bar. calicodc.com TIGER FORK This gem is also hidden away on Blagden Alley.

Expect great moods and Hong Kong-inspired street food. They mix their cocktails with Chinese spirits and “medical tonics”. Exquisite. tigerforkdc.com

THE DABNEY The Dabney is just around the corner from Tiger Fork. In this rustic place, the food is cooked over open flames. The owners have made it their mission to find the best small-scale producers around, and they buy all their produce from the local area. They also run a wine bar nearby, which sells many exciting wines by the glass. thedabney.com COLUMBIA ROOM This is a place where they take their spirits seriously.

Precisely mixed cocktails are combined with contemporary, minimalist food. You can either visit the Spirits Library or the Punch Garden for a drink and a bite, or book the Tasting Room and try their tasting menu with matching cocktails with some friends. columbiaroomdc.com

La Colombe and Tiger Forks, two very fine establishments.

A stormtrooper in trouble at wonderful Calico.

The food at Tiger Forks looks and tastes great.

A visit to Tiger Forks is exactly as uplifting as you’d guess from this picture.

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H Street NE

This is where it’s all happening, or going to happen.

Gentrification hasn’t yet brought the hipster scourge down on the whole area, so you’ll find dingy lunch joints and sea food places that may have seen better days, but still have a great, local brand of charm.

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FOTO: THE LINE

The Line Hotel

One of D.C.’s coolest hotels has opened in the Adams Morgan neighborhood, in a neoclassicist building that used to be a church. Apart from 2 restaurants and more than 200 rooms, they also have 2 bars. All the produce here is as local as it gets, and despite the great quality and the sky-high hipster appeal, The Line is unpretentious and welcoming. thelinehotel.com

Cork Wine Bar/Market

This wine bar, one of our favorites in D.C. is located on (you guessed it!) 14th Street.

Cork serves glasses of wine and good food, but they also have a selection of more than 300 exceptional bottles of wine that you can purchase to take home. corkdc.com

9 Other Great Wine Bars

We’ve listed the 10 best wine bars in Washington, D.C., on our website. americantrailsmag.com

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FOTO: JONAS HENNINGSSON

Atlas Brew Works

D.C has a great beer scene, and Atlas is one of the stops you simply have to make if you’re on a beer tour. They always have exciting ryes and stouts on tap, as well as collabs. Their tap room is cool, too. atlasbrewworks.com

Union Market

Market halls are making a comeback in a big way. Union Market is D.C.’s new hip market for food and drink enthusiasts. Restaurants for all budgets are tucked in among market stalls that sell pretty much anything you could possibly want to put in your stomach. unionmarketdc.com

FOTO: JONAS LARSSON

Martin’s Tavern

Dolcezza Gelato

A George Town classic. The bar opened way back in 1933, and since then, it’s been frequented by politicians and celebrities wanting a cool joint to hang out. Harry Truman always used to sit in booth 6, but I take a seat at the bar. The place is run by fourth generation Martins–how’s that for authentic? martinstavern.com

They have nine locations; we visit the one at Dupont Circle. It’s easy to describe: the best coffee and ice cream this side of the Atlantic (there is this place in Paris that makes unbelievable ice cream…), and a modern, comfortable interior. dolcezzagelato.com dirtywaterdough.com

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FORGOTTEN AMERICAN CLASSICS

Valerie Capers

A Lost Portrait In Soul In each issue, American Trails’ vinyl editor Donivan Berube tells the story of a classic, but forgotten, American album. This time, Donivan interviews legendary jazz musician Valerie Capers

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BY DONIVAN BERUBE

ike many great artists in American history, Valerie Capers began her jazz career quite hesitantly, almost unwillingly. It was her younger brother Bobby Capers, an established and ambitious saxophonist, who encouraged her to dedicate more time to jazz music. “You play classical piano, but you’re an African American woman,” he told her. “You should direct your talent at the music that reflects your heritage.” As the first blind graduate of the Juilliard School of Music, Capers has gone on to build an extraordinary legacy in music and education, even now into her eighties.

In an exclusive interview with American Trails Magazine, Capers describes the fateful day in which she watched her sight fade away. At the age of six, she woke up with a sudden onset of pink eye and a sore throat. Her mother attempted home remedies and medicinal treatments, trying desperately to assuage her sick daughter’s symptoms to no avail. “After three days, my father wrapped me up in a tannish-gray blanket and took me to the hospital in a bright

yellow taxi cab,” she reflects vividly, mentioning that these were her very last memories of sight. “We arrived at the hospital and it was snowing outside. I ended up being quarantined there for four months.” She was diagnosed with a severe case of strep throat, which at the time was highly contagious and somewhat incurable. That simple infection eventually settled into her optic nerve, destroying her eyesight. She describes one final cloudy vision of white ghosts surrounding her hospital bed: “I wasn’t afraid of them, I just couldn’t tell what they were.” In hindsight, she understands that it was simply the gowned doctors and nurses who wore face masks to prevent catching Capers’ illness themselves.

JUILLIARD

Gravitating towards music after being stricken with blindness came naturally for her, picking out melodies by ear and receiving encouragement from her musical family.

While Capers’ father held down steady employment at the United States Postal Service, he was also an excellent pianist and an integral part of the local music scene.

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CAPERS WAS EVENTUALLY OFFERED FULL SCHOLARSHIPS AT BOTH JUILLIARD AND COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY’S BARNARD COLLEGE, A PRIVATE WOMEN’S LIBERAL ARTS SCHOOL. SHE CHOSE JUILLIARD, PARTIALLY BECAUSE SHE’D ALREADY BECOME FAMILIAR WITH THE SCHOOL’S LAYOUT FROM HER EARLIER EXTENSION COURSE.

played piano at his wedding reception. Capers reasons that being blind afforded her the opportunity to receive an education far beyond that which either of her parents ever could have dreamed of or afforded, attending the New York Institute for the Education of the Blind in the Bronx.

While completing her early education there, she enrolled in an extension course offered by Juilliard’s John Mehegan, an esteemed jazz pianist, critic, lecturer, and music teacher. Still a teenager, Capers was taken under his wing and brought into an entirely new world of music composition for theater. These ever-expanding boundaries became difficult to balance, however, as her primary music teacher at the New York Institute kept strict watch over the classical music Capers was “supposed” to be practicing. This left little time for her to pursue the further assignments and training that she was growing into with Mehegan. One afternoon, her brother found her in tears at the piano. “What’s the matter with you?” he frowned.

“I just can’t play the blues,” she lamented. When asked how long she’d practiced that day, she admitted that of the four lengthy hours of practice she’d put in, most of it was spent on classical compositions. Soon she realized that a proficiency in jazz and blues might have to come at the sacrifice of the classical music she’d been studying her entire life.

Capers was eventually offered full scholarships at both Juilliard and Columbia University’s Barnard College, a private women’s liberal arts school. She chose Juilliard, partially because she’d already become familiar with the school’s layout from her earlier extension course. While Capers’ father helped her across campus to locate her classes, keeping up with the curriculum remained a daily challenge. “By the time I’d finally get a braille copy of a book we needed for class, everyone else would already be three books deep,” she laughs. Other times, she would have to find someone else to read the books to her out

loud. Capers essentially pioneered such course studies and teaching strategies to become the school’s first blind graduate, receiving her bachelor’s and master’s degrees in music.

A BLIND AFRICAN AMERICAN WOMAN IN THE 1950S

Remember, though, that this was only 1959. Capers possessed a harrowing trifecta of societal roadblocks: she was a woman, she was an African American woman, and she was a blind African American woman, growing up in the extremely dangerous era of the American Civil Rights Movement of the 1950’s and 60’s. After graduating, she found it remarkably difficult to find a good job, even despite her master’s degree.

Nevertheless, she kept playing, improving, and diversifying her musicality, citing Bill Evans’ “awareness” at the piano and John Coltrane’s astral progression throughout the 1950’s as “genius” sources of inspiration. Rather than drawing from such obvious jazz performers, however, her earliest influencers remained the great classical composers of music history, having learned at a very young age the arrangements of Schumann, Tchaikovsky, and Bach, even attending a Rudolf Serkin concert at New York’s famed Carnegie Hall. She revered in the fact that some of their greatest pieces were written for a young enough audience, at an at least achievable level of difficulty, that young people like herself could play them. Even so, those composers never seemed to lose their own style or singularity for Capers, providing that very element of identifiable “cool” that the New York jazz movement personified.

Musical inspirations aside, it was her brother Bobby Capers that lovingly took on a role similar to a coach or manager. Having established valuable connections in the music industry after heavy touring and recording work with the Mongo Santamaria Latin jazz group, he set Capers up with Atlantic Records, the massive and ­historic label producing 112

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Rather than drawing from such obvious jazz performers, however, her earliest influencers remained the great classical composers of music history, having learned at a very young age the arrangements of Schumann, Tchaikovsky, and Bach, even attending a Rudolf Serkin concert at New York’s famed Carnegie Hall. She revered in the fact that some of their greatest pieces were written for a young enough audience, at an at least achievable level of difficulty, that young people like herself could play them. Even so, those composers never seemed to lose their own style or singularity for Capers, providing that very element of identifiable “cool� that the New York jazz movement personified.

IN ITS QUIETER MOMENTS, SUCH AS THE OPENING TRACK “LITTLE DAVID SWING” OR “KENNE’S SOUL,” THE RECORD PLAYS MORE AKIN TO THE EARLY STUDIO ALBUMS OF THE BILL EVANS TRIO, WITH HER BEAUTIFUL PIANO LEAD ACCOMPANIED

BY A TIGHT RHYTHMIC SECTION OF BRUSHED DRUMS AND BASS.

certified jazz classics by true giants like John Coltrane, Art Blakey, Ornette Coleman, and later, Roberta Flack.

Leading a band for the very first time on a major label recording production, Capers boldly showcased mostly original compositions in her 1966 debut Portrait In Soul; only the album-closer “The Heather On the Hill” is accredited to an outside writer, the Broadway songwriting team of Alan Lerner & Frederick Lowe. She extends her masterful range at the piano atop an infectious blend of traditional jazz performance, post-bop complexity, and the rhythmic backbeat of Afro-Cuban rumbas. Her arrangements are both swinging and expressive, a flawless transcription of soul jazz musicianship at its finest. Capers’ fierce governance of the keys isn’t hampered by blindness, but rather, emboldened by it.

In its quieter moments, such as the opening track “Little David Swing” or “Kenne’s Soul,” the record plays more akin to the early studio albums of the Bill Evans Trio, with her beautiful piano lead accompanied by a tight rhythmic section of brushed drums and bass. In her wider strokes, however, the trio becomes awash in flurries of horn sections and upbeat swings more comparable to those of Lee Morgan or Charles Mingus. “Odyssey” hammers home the hardest, heaviest bop offering of them all. It’s the kind of jazz you can move to, as artistic as it is learned, as refined and articulate as it is soulful and revelatory. The recordings supplement her expert prowess and seemingly limitless musical capacity with an absolute and undeniable groove.

album nowadays, Capers moans with disapproval. “I was so young and inexperienced,” she says. “I play those songs much better now.”

Her decision to pursue a career in education as opposed to the life of a recording artist may seem strange, considering the apparent success she found right out of the gate. “I had bills to pay,” she responds flatly. And with so much focus on superstars of the day like Miles Davis and John Coltrane, female jazz musicians and bandleaders like Capers, Dorothy Ashby, or Blossom Dearie didn’t seem to share in that same sort of spotlight. “It’s a man’s game,” she says regretfully. “And I needed some sort of security.”

More recent releases such as 1995’s Come On Home and 2014’s Wagner Takes the A Train present an entirely new side of Capers: her voice. Singing has proved to be yet another new challenge for her to master, adding vocal jazz songs to her repertoire without losing touch of her own accompaniment at the keys. Meanwhile, she has worked for the Manhattan School of Music and the Department of Music and Art at the Bronx Community College, where she eventually became chairman. Later, she received honorary doctorates from Lehman College in the Bronx, Doane University in Nebraska, Bloomfield College in New Jersey, and Susquehanna University in Pennsylvania. In 2015, New York City Mayor Bill de Blasio appointed Capers to the city’s Cultural Affairs Advisory Commission. She still lives, teaches, and plays music in New York.

With this year marking the 80th anniversary of the preeminent jazz label Blue Note records, audiophile reissues of “lost” recordings and bonafied classics are a hot ticket for modern day record collectors. One can only hope that Capers’ soul jazz classic will soon receive that same treatment, so that music fans can discover and rediscover the swing that lurks within.

PORTRAIT IN SOUL

Since the initial release of Portrait In Soul in 1966, the album has never been reissued on vinyl, CD, or any other physical format, leaving jazz fans and record collectors scrambling for vintage and increasingly rare original pressings, most of which were provided to radio stations and venues for promotional use. When asked about the 114

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Shake, Shuffle and Roll

I

What happens if you let chance, or a deck of cards and a couple of dice, decide your roadtrip?

John DeLeva and Jolica Taguiped shuffled and rolled their way through four southern states.

WORDS: JOHN DELEVA • PHOTO: JOLICA TAGUIPED

t was too soon to leave Memphis. We were far from reaching our recommended dosage of Delta Blues and blackened catfish. But it was time to draw a card, roll the dice and go somewhere. Somewhere the suit of the cards and the dots on the dice would lead us. Chance would dictate our route for the next 48 hours.

Our game was simple. Draw a heart and we drive north, a diamond south, a club west and a spade east.

The dice tell us how many miles. Doubles on the die gives us the option to double the miles. So a queen of hearts plus a pair of fours meant north, either 44 or 88 miles.

We’d give ourselves one misdeal a day if we didn’t like the direction. Otherwise it was shake, shuffle, roll and go find something interesting.

Over shrimp and grits plus a few refills of the house coffee we discussed the previous night in Memphis. Beale Street never disappoints with its bars stacked with bourbon, its stages vibrating with the sounds of blues, rock or soul. Songs by and images of Elvis, BB King, Johnny Cash, Otis Redding and so many others were everywhere.

Their ghosts were close.

Memphis is an ideal starting point for random travel like this, as the first Shake, Shuffle and Roll could have lead us to any of seven different states. There were so many possibilities for the days ahead: the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville, Elvis’ birthplace in Tupelo, the Kentucky Derby, maybe even Ground Zero for the Blues, Clarksdale,

Mississippi. My wife, Jolica, would be the shotgun warrior for the trip and start our fate with the first draw: a six of diamonds. And the first roll: a three and a six. That meant south, 36 or 63 miles. We pulled out the map to discuss.

NOT YO MAMA’S 5K RACE

Senatobia, Mississippi, called first. Just 36 miles south of Memphis, the land early settlers bought from the Chickasaw Indians for $1.25 an acre means “rest for the weary.”

It served as a stopping point for travelers from the east heading to visit hot springs in Arkansas. Loafing around downtown looking for something of interest, a window sign caught my eye: Senatobia’s annual classic car show, corn hole tournament and Not Yo Mama’s 5K Race . . . was in two days! We would miss that but a local told us we were right on time for Alma Jean’s southern comfort food.

Next thing you know we’re sitting at a table loaded with collard greens, sweet carrots, gravy stuffing, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and lively conversation.

ONE DEGREE OF SEPARATION

It’s a strange feeling to look at a map and see something pulling in every direction except the direction you need to go. But that’s what a spade and a pair of fives will do.

We aimed east past family farms and just-a-dot-on-amap towns when a funky coffee cup mural on the wall of antique store caught our attention. So did a sharply dressed woman sipping a latte on a sofa inside the shop.

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arger than life guitar art of Memphis legend Johnny Cash on Beale Street.

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FROM THE FIRST STEP ATOP DARK WOODEN FLOORS TO THE SNAP AND CRACKLE SOUNDS OF VINYL SPINNING ON A TURNTABLE, THE GUNRUNNER HOTEL LURED US RIGHT TO THE LONG WOODEN BAR, INLAID WITH HONEYCOMB ONYX, WHICH DOUBLED AS A CHECK-IN DESK.

Sure enough, she was the marketing director for the town of Holly Springs and soon enough we discovered we had a number of mutual friends with Miss Tyrisha Battle. Before we left, we found twenty colorful U.S. state dinner plates that would, along with an iced Americano, join us on the journey east.

hotel across the river in Florence offered the quirky story and funky rooms we love. From the first step atop dark wooden floors to the snap and crackle sounds of vinyl spinning on a turntable, the GunRunner Hotel lured us right to the long wooden bar, inlaid with honeycomb onyx, which doubled as a check-in desk. Brick walls, exposed beams, and imaginative furnishings made the former Cadillac dealership building a warm, welcoming stop for the night.

BARELY HIGHER THAN THE TURNING TORSO

The cards and dice led us pass Woodall Mountain, the highest point in the entire state of Mississippi which stands just 50 meters taller than Malmo’s Turning Torso.

We expected to discover some obscure places on this trip as well as go through empty miles where we would ask each other: What are we doing? Several stretches reminded me of a 28,324-mile trip I took in 1995 to win a bet and finish visiting all 3,086 counties, boroughs and parishes in the USA. That was a trip when Avis banned me from future rentals after “abusing their unlimited mileage privilege,” but that’s another story.” I guess what I’m saying is, unexpected discoveries are as much a part of a trip like this as are long stretches of looking, hoping, waiting for someone, or something of interest.

WILD HORSES AND A FREE BIRD

If a former coffin showroom in a dry county of rural Alabama seems an odd place to lure the Rolling Stones, Cher, Aretha, Paul Simon, Rod Stewart and a dozen other major recording artists well, it certainly was. The most famous rhythm section of the late 1960’s and 70’s, called out and named the Swampers by Lynyrd Skynyrd in their megahit Sweet Home Alabama, formed on the boggy banks of the Tennessee River in a place the world came to know as Muscle Shoals. It’s impossible to take the tour and not feel the vibe of all that happened in an otherwise wonted building that almost faded into oblivion. An award-winning 2013 documentary and a million bucks from Dr. Dre saved the day. Inside the two-story brick building simply known as 3614 Jackson Highway stood the grand piano where Free Bird was composed. A few feet away sat the bathroom Keith Richards locked himself in to finish the final verses of Wild Horses. And behind that door, no, that one that doesn’t look like a door . . . was a speakeasy, because the creative energy here needed a little more spirit than a dry county could provide.

INDIAN CHIEFS, HELEN KELLER AND GUNRUNNERS

Tishomingo. Iuka. Tuscumbia. A series of towns named after Cherokee and Chickasaw chiefs brought us to a place where the most famous disabled person in the world was born and raised. She was deaf, and blind, yet graduated with Bachelor of Arts and became a author, activist and renowned lecturer. Our timing only allowed us to visit the outside of Helen Keller’s homestead and museum, but some nearby signs enabled us to learn a lot about this amazing lady.

Our game allowed us to find a hotel within five miles of our last roll. We did have pillows and blankets in the car just in case, but they weren’t needed as a unique boutique

BISON TRAILS AND WORLD’S LARGEST FISH FRY

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The front desk of the GunRunner hotel doubles as a beautiful bar, with brick walls, exposed beams and vinyl spinning on a turntable.

Time-gone-by general store in Tennessee.

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Tyrisha Battle, a friend of a friend, taking a coffee break in Holly Springs, Mississippi.

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River crossing near Big Springs Lake, and Hobo Station in Mississippi.

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The Shakes and Rolls DAY 1 MEMPHIS: Diamond 6-3, drove South 36 miles

to Senatobia, Mississippi.

SENATOBIA: Spade 5-5, drove East 110 miles to New Site, Mississippi.

NEW SITE: Heart 2-3, drove North 32 miles

to Iuka, Mississippi.

IUKA: Spade 1-3, drove East 31 miles to Tuscumbia,

Alabama.

Stayed in Florence, Alabama, 3 miles from last roll.

DAY 2

TUSCUMBIA: Heart 4-4, drove North 88 miles to Linden, Tennessee.

LINDEN: Club 3-4, drove West 34 miles to Lexington, Tennessee.

LEXINGTON: Heart 6-5, drove North 65 miles

to Hazel, Kentucky.

HAZEL: Spade 3-4, drove Northeast 24 miles (see note) Note: No due east route, selected Northeast . . . then an unexpected bridge closure so we just stayed by bridge in Aurora, Kentucky

DAY 3 AURORA: drove north until we could complete the last

10 miles from the previous roll which brought us to Kuttawa, Kentucky.

KUTTAWA: Heart 2-6, drove North 26 miles

to Marion, Kentucky.

MARION: Club 4-6, drove East 64 miles to Slaughters,

Kentucky.

SLAUGHTERS: Diamond 1-4, drove South 14 miles

to Madisonville, Kentucky.

MADISONVILLE: Club 2-4, drove East 24 miles

to Island, Kentucky.

ISLAND: Heart, 1-6, drove to Owensboro, Kentucky.

A FRIEND OF OURS WAS CELEBRATING HER 50TH BIRTHDAY IN PARIS, FRANCE, THE SAME DAY CHANCE BROUGHT US TO PARIS, TENNESSEE. SO WHILE SHE GOT THE EIFFEL TOWER AND THE ARC DE TRIOMPHE WE GOT TO VISIT THE HOME OF THE WORLD’S LARGEST FISH FRY.

­ arkway roughly traces a forest trail that bison, Native p Americans, settlers, traders and soldiers once took between the Mississippi River settlement of Natchez and Nashville. Sadly, we learned Meriwether Lewis, of the famed Lewis and Clark expedition, died on the trail just three years after completing the historic trek to the Pacific Ocean.

A friend of ours was celebrating her 50th birthday in Paris, France, the same day chance brought us to Paris, Tennessee. So while she got the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe we got to visit the home of the world’s largest fish fry. Had we been three days earlier just 12 American dollars would have gotten us “all you eat catfish, plus the trimmings.” We did get a little consolation prize when I asked the bartender at Perrylodgic Brewing Company for a sample of the IPA and he responded, “we’re like Baskin Robbins here, you can have all the samples you want, for free.”

have to visit all of them another time. This trip was about going where we might not ever go, taking roads only because that’s the way the cards were picked and the dice were rolled. Fortunately our trail did merge with Kentucky’s famed Bourbon Trail.

More than100 miles west of the other 11 distilleries on the Bourbon Trail, the O.Z. Tyler Distillery in the Ohio River township of Owensboro, was on our path. We arrived at 2:30 for the final tour of the day only to learn it started at 2:00. Not to worry, the accommodating gift shop manager exclaimed, we’ll get someone to show you around. Soon enough, we toured, we learned, we sampled!

Our Trail passports were stamped and a future trip to Lexington was planned to visit the other 11 distilleries.

SHAKE, SHUFFLE AND STACK THE DECK, LOAD THE DICE

This was fun. This was frustrating. We saw some cool places we would never have seen. We past by some great places we would like to have seen. Today’s lives are pretty scheduled, pretty planned. The random route, the spontaneity, the uncertainty was refreshing. But damn, coming so close and going directly opposite some cool places was excruciating. I think next time we do a hybrid version . . . Shake, Shuffle and Roll, but maybe every other roll we pick the way we want to go. I don’t know. I just know I want to keep going.

BRIDGE CLOSURE AND WHAT, A TORNADO?

Severe weather and road construction could be a factor on any May day when venturing down South, but we fared just fine for the first 399 miles of this trip. Then we got word of a bridge closure on our route. It really wasn’t a big deal as a Kentucky State Park Resort was nearby if we couldn’t get across. Sure enough, the bridge was closed.

The front desk folks at the Kenlake State Resort delivered good and bad news. There were plenty of rooms available . . . but there was indeed a tornado warning. We were tired, fell right asleep and did wake up in the morning, so it must have missed us. The bridge was still closed though.

OUR TRAIL MERGES WITH THE BOURBON TRAIL

Jolica kept saying, let’s go this way . . . let’s go that way.

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Retired smoke stake at O.Z. Tyler Distillery, Owensboro, Kentucky.

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An Oasis in the Middle of Nowhere MESA FARM MARKET, TORREY, UTAH WORDS: CECILIA NÚÑEZ • PHOTO: JONAS HENNINGSSON

That morning we woke up touching the sky, embraced by the ochre mountains of Utah. We drove the car conquering the road that would take us into the most intimate contact with ourselves. We said “I’m hungry” at the same time. We drove with the certainty of knowing exactly where we were going. And there, sitting on the edge of a 50-acre sustainable farm, there was Mesa Farm Market, a charming purple wooden house, an oasis in the wilderness of Utah’s Colorado Plateau region.

When we entered to the humble gourmet store, a country song was sounding from the radio. We choose a lovely salad from freshly picked vegetables, artisan bread just baked in the wood-fired stone oven, goat cheese, yogurt, and a smoothie made from fruits grown onsite. And, of course, fresh brewed coffee.

We sat down in the wooden table facing the red rocks and the oneiric landscape that the Capitol Reef National Park offer to all those travelers who know how to see with the eyes full of curiosity.

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Mountain Chapel

CHAPEL OF THE HOLY CROSS, SEDONA, ARIZONA WORDS AND PHOTO: JONAS LARSSON

The Chapel of the Holy Cross, which is located south of Flagstaff, Arizona, in beautiful Sedona, looks like it grew out of the surrounding rocks, which are suitably named Mystic Hills. The building was finished in 1956, but it could just as well have been yesterday; it is truly timeless. It’s every bit as beautiful on the inside, as the large window with the cross frames a perfect picture of the dramatic landscape outside.

When the local rancher, philanthropist, and sculptress Marguerite Brunswig Staude saw the Empire State building in New York in the 1930s, she had an epiphany: she would build a church inspired by the famous skyscraper. After many trials and tribulations, including a World War, the building, which was designed by architects Richard Hein and August K. Strotz, was finally finished.

If you’re coming from Flagstaff, which is a little over 30 miles north of here, the most scenic route is Highway 89A through Oak Creek Canyon–the drive alone is worth making the trip for!

780 CHAPEL RD., SEDONA, ARIZONA • CHAPELOFTHEHOLYCROSS.COM

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